CHAPTER TWELVE

 

The name of the class was Boring Things You Need to Accomplish to Graduate This Damnable Culinary Program. Okay, not really. It was Purchasing and Storeroom Procedures, which amounted to the same thing. Finn hated it. It was uninteresting, unexciting and downright awful. She particularly hated it today when her mind was on other things, things like people who wanted her dead. She reminded herself that someday this would all be over. No running from one tour to the next, from one class to another, taking sordid pictures for Tommy with little time to eat, sleep or have a life. One day she would be a professional- –a chef with her own kitchen. No Johnny Franco or FBI’s Most Wanted woman chasing after her.

Today she’d take notes, learn, explore and try not to fall asleep or think up ways to get the chef instructor, Wanda Westrom, fired. The woman herself paced in front of the class, a bead of sweat tracking down her forehead. No cooking-–oh, no, not today-–they were in a classroom and the instructor seemed to think they were all idiots.

She was intent on humiliating someone.

She was intent on clearing the room of someone. Or several someones.

She was intent on making someone cry.

In other words, she was being herself.

“So, Eli,” she asked, an evil twinkle in her eye, “what do you think of the concept?”

Since Finn had been woolgathering, she had no idea what concept Chef referred to and was overjoyed the woman hadn’t called on her. She cringed when she spotted Eli, one of the twelve other students in this class. From the panicked look on Eli’s face, he had no idea either. His face reddened. If possible, he was sweating even more than the Wicked Witch. His mouth opened and closed several times as he gasped for air, or the answer.

“I don’t know,” he managed.

“Do you plan on passing this class, young man?” Chef Westrom’s strident voice penetrated every nerve ending in Finn’s body.

Eli visibly shook as he answered in a quivery voice, “I hope so.”

“So do I,” she said, “but I don’t see it happening.”

“You don’t?” he replied, his tone indicating his belief that such a thing was at least possible.

“Never mind.” She scanned the other expectant, terrified faces. She extracted a sheaf of papers from a manila folder. A groan emanated from behind Finn. “Right you are, boys and girls.”

With a smirk on her face, Cynthia of the bad disposition, chimed in, “Pop quiz, hotshot.”

Chef Instructor Westrom might have smiled. It was hard to say for sure. Her lips twitched. “That’s correct, Cynthia. Pop quiz. Twelve delightful questions for twelve delightful students. You should know the answers. Otherwise, you might as well go watch movies with Cynthia to hone your movie references because you’ll never graduate or go on to become average chefs.”

One of the younger girls in the front row raised her hand. If Finn had been closer to her, she would have yanked it down. No good ever came from raising a hand and asking a stupid question. Not when the woman was in one of her evil moods. And Finn knew, without a single doubt, the question was going to be moronic.

“What’s on your mind, Elspeth?”

Elspeth? What kind of idiot parents named their child Elspeth? What an unfortunate name. Almost as bad as Finnigan.

“What movie are you talking about, Chef Westrom?”

The instructor’s face reddened, her eyes widened and the sweat trickling down her forehead dripped onto the floor. Oh, boy. Here it comes.

The evil witch was about to cast a spell on poor Elspeth. Finn imagined her turning the poor girl into a toad. Or maybe in this case, a tureen of turtle soup.

From the corner of her eye, Finn saw her ghostly chef friend standing beside Chef Westrom and gesturing with his hands like he was trying to choke her.

Finn hid a grin behind a hand. He winked at Finn as the instructor began to cough. Her face, already red, turned a deeper magenta color. She reached for her water bottle, took a long drink. A puzzled expression crossed her face.

When her breathing returned to normal, she handed out the test papers without replying to Elspeth’s ridiculous question. Finn’s ghost threw up his hands. He scowled, then stalked up the aisle and stopped beside Finn’s chair. She looked but, of course, no one saw him but her. The whole idea she could see a ghost still blew her mind.

“She’s ten times worse,” he drawled, “than the worst chef I’ve seen in all the years of classes at this school. I know you can’t reply without looking like a lunatic or drawing the wrath of the foolish woman. I merely wanted you to know I feel your pain.”

Finn took the sheet of paper the student in front of her passed back but her eyes never left Chef John Michael.

“You’ll do fine. As they say, this, too, shall pass. Whoever they are. Watch out for question number four. It’s a bit tricky. Remember proper storing temps. Until next time.” He disappeared.

Finn swallowed hard and looked around. No one watched her. Most of them had pulled out a pen and were starting the test. She caught the instructor staring at her. “Ten minutes, Miss Jones. Time’s a wasting.”

Finn got the hint, took a pen from her backpack and began. Was everyone else’s life as complicated? Given her week, she’d bet a year’s tuition no one’s life was more screwed up than her own.

The test covered the things they’d been studying in this class. She knew the answer to the first question and the rest fell in line as easily. With special attention on question four, it came to her right away. If only her life could be so simple.

 

As Finn stepped out the door after school, her cell phone buzzed. She looked at the number and didn’t recognize it. She stopped walking, stepped back against the building into the shade and flipped it open. “Hello?”

“Finnigan Jones?”

“Yes?”

“This is Margaret Barron.”

Finn’s heart skipped a beat. “No way. How did you get this number?”

“I haf my ways. I believe I’ve said this before.”

“What do you want? Do you know there’s a warrant out for Johnny Franco’s arrest?” Finn paused to take a needed breath. “It’s only a matter of time before the FBI finds you. And him. You should leave New Orleans. The whole country, for that matter.”

“It’s why I called. I’m tired of running. I’m tired of putting up with Johnny. Even great sex isn’t worth putting up with his bull. I’m outta here. I said good-bye to my sis. I’m headed to an island with boat drinks, sandy beaches and plenty of sunshine. I want to see buff young men in nothing but surfer shorts every single day for the rest of my natural life.”

“Some country with no extradition policy with the United States.”

“Exactly.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Finn asked. If this wasn’t one of the craziest conversations of her life, she was a future Miss America.

“I’m trying to say I’m sorry. Honestly. I never meant to scare you or your sister. I’m not like this. I don’t even kill bugs. Johnny kept at me to get those pictures but I don’t care anymore. I simply want to go away.”

“What about the money? Doesn’t Franco want a piece of it?” Finn couldn’t believe she was having this conversation. They were actually talking like two normal people.

Barron chuckled. “Oh, he wants it all right but it’s safely stashed away where he can never get at it. He seems to think I want to set up housekeeping here in New Orleans with him. Like I’d actually do it. I can’t stay here. Eventually the FBI will find me and then where would I be?”

“So, you’re calling me because...?”

“To say I’m sorry. To say I’m leaving. To say be careful of Johnny. I know he has a terrible temper, but I don’t know what he’s capable of.”

“You think after you’re gone, he’s gonna keep after us for those pictures?”

“Exactly what I think. It doesn’t matter to me. I’m disappearing. Margaret Jane Barron will be no longer. New name. New face. New body. Watch out, Jennifer Aniston.”

Finn shook her head. The woman might find a great plastic surgeon who could work wonders, the best in the entire world, but she would look no more like Jennifer Aniston afterward than Finn herself. “Good luck with that.”

“Thanks, dear, it’s been real.”

Not real. It had been a nightmare. With Franco still in the picture, she doubted it was over yet. When she realized she had the phone to her ear and was listening to nothing but dead air, she called Jack with the news. Thank God, one of her nemeses was leaving town. One down, one to go.

***

Since Gert left on cruise patrol Finn was officially on cat duty. After her afternoon class, she went home and grabbed a bite to eat with Debbie. She felt a little guilty for having left her alone so much of the time she’d been visiting.

It was nearing twilight when she let herself into Gert’s back door. She opened the gate and walked past several antique lawn ornaments and a contemporary lap pool to get to the back door.

Gert had a great sense of style yet the yard desperately needed a little TLC, a lot of TLC actually, weeds sprouting everywhere, overgrown bushes in need of trimming, branches and twigs littering the brick walkways and grassy areas. Soon she and Jack would be tackling it all.

She passed a hundred-year-old magnolia tree and smiled at the eccentric garden gnomes and elves scattered about the base of the trunk. She half expected them to come to life, jump up and start jabbering at her. Or worse.

The kittens, Maggie and Jake, met her at the kitchen door, mewing, winding around her legs and begging for attention. She flipped on the overhead light, picked them up and cuddled their warm bodies.

She stood in the massive kitchen with its black and white tiled floors, black granite countertops and ten-foot high ceilings. She wondered for the hundredth time how Gert kept from going crazy in the huge mansion all by herself.

It had at least thirteen rooms, marble fireplaces and antique carpets in nearly every one. Each magnificent room had been decorated with Louis XVI furniture, extensive draperies and overpriced paintings. Whenever Finn stepped inside she tiptoed around terrified she was going to break something. Gert merely laughed at her.

She went into the laundry room to feed and water the entire crew. When she opened the bag of cat food, the crackle brought forth Angelina. Her elegant black tail swished back and forth. Scarlett wandered in looking sleek and regal, her fluffy white coat gleaming and lustrous.

Finn filled six food bowls, set them in a line in front of the dryer, then from the oversized laundry sink emptied and re-filled the water dispenser. She placed it on the floor.

She leaned against the washing machine, watched the cats eat and relished the peace and quiet. The only sound that of the air conditioning quietly turning on and off and the mantle clock ticking distantly from the dining room.

When Archie, an orange tabby, tiptoed in, he stared at Finn a moment, then lined up with the other four and began to eat.

She proceeded to clean out the litter boxes beside the dryer. After washing her hands, she studied the cats as they delicately ate their way through the food then licked their whiskers and paws. Such single-minded dedication to eating and grooming. Such simple lives. If only.

Drew still hadn’t shown up. Sure, he was a cat and had his own agenda. And true, he was only one of six in Gert’s menagerie but he was the one she’d saved from the clutches of death. Or whatever it was they did to cats people no longer wanted. Finn called his name. Again.

She took the cat-sitting job seriously and wanted each cat accounted for before she left.

If she didn’t find him soon and get him fed, Finn was going to be late for her pathetically voyeuristic job of photo taking. Where could the darn cat be anyway?

“Drew, honey? Here, kitty, kitty.” She wandered from one room to the next looking under beds, behind furniture, around the bend. “Kitty, kitty.”

Archie followed in her wake, meowing pitifully.

Drew was named after the Saints’ quarterback and he was Gert’s favorite. Finn had to find him and make sure he was okay.

Where was he? Like the real-life New Orleans Saint he was named after, Drew Brees, this Drew could normally be counted on for top shelf behavior. Not so much when he was a kitten, however. Once, thankfully not on Finn’s watch, he pulled a bedspread off a bed by pulling on a single thread and then shredding the thing until there was nothing left but square- inch quilting-sized pieces. Another time he managed to get the bag of cat food off the counter and made his way through half of it before falling down sick, his belly bloated like a balloon, and scaring Gert half to death.

Finn knew he hadn’t devoured another week’s worth of cat food this time since none was missing. She didn’t mind the cat-sitting, even cleaning up the poop, but she didn’t want to make any vet visits. She’d done it once before and it was no picnic. It had been Scarlett several months back and thankfully, it was nothing but an eye infection.

She came back to the laundry room. No Drew. She went through the kitchen one more time calling his name. She toured through the dining room and the den, slowly this time, turning on the lights as she went, checking beneath chairs, behind furniture and drapes, calling out his name and feeling downright foolish. When he wanted to eat, he’d appear. You could lead a horse to water but...blah, blah, blah.

Still she’d feel better if she knew he was okay. She wasn’t going to leave until she at least saw him.

She climbed the stairs and checked the hallway, the guest rooms, the bathrooms, even opened the door of the linen closet and peeked inside.

When she entered the lovely master bedroom, Gert’s room, she was captivated as always. Bathed in the warm late afternoon light coming through the bank of west windows, the comfy-looking bed would have enticed Goldilocks.

An unmoving orange-striped tail stuck out beneath the edge of the front window’s drapes and lay on the carpeted floor like an s-shaped banana.

“Oh, no.” Finn’s heart jittered in her chest as she rushed across the room.

She shoved the drapes aside, knelt on the floor and gently touched the body. Thank God he was still warm and alive, though his breathing hitched in and out. She was no doctor, wasn’t certain how much longer he would last or if this was even serious. She did know she was making a trip to the vet again.

Finn held him against her chest and rushed downstairs.

“Later, cats,” she hollered as she snagged her keys off the counter passing through the kitchen at a run. Her mind spun through all the options. She was done with tours and culinary classes for the day but she was supposed to be on booty patrol for Tommy later on. It was still two hours away so she should be fine. If Drew was fine.

She jump in her car and arrived at Gert’s vet’s office in ten minutes, after having run two red lights and avoiding killing an avid bicyclist intent on riding in the middle of the street.

She dashed into the single story building holding the still breathing Drew who, as far as Finn could tell, needed to be on life support.

No other four-legged patients waited. The thin, young, blonde receptionist, dressed in a blue smock with kittens bouncing all over it, looked up expectantly, her big brown eyes wide, her mouth a round “oh” of surprise.

“I’m cat sitting for my aunt, Gert Charboneau,” Finn explained gasping hard after her mad dash from the car. “This one, his name is Drew, he’s sick. He’s not breathing right.”

“You’re lucky you got here when you did. I was getting ready to close.” She peered at the cat in Finn’s arms. “Is this the cat who ate the bedspread?” She got to her feet and came around the partition, which separated her desk from the waiting area.

“The one and only. He was fine yesterday. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

She tucked her finger beneath the cat’s chin, studied his half-staff eyelids and the tongue lolling out his mouth. “Did he eat something he shouldn’t have?”

“I looked but I didn’t see anything.”

“Has he been outside?”

“Only in the fenced yard. Gert doesn’t let them wander the neighborhood or anything.”

“Doc Mac isn’t with anyone right now so we can take him right in. Follow me.”

Finn held Drew tight in her arms and followed the young woman down a short hallway to an examination room.

“I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name,” said the receptionist, aka the vet assistant, as it turned out when she pulled strange utensils from a drawer and lay them out on a counter.

“Finn Jones. I’m cat-sitting for my Aunt Gert.”

“Cruising, is she?”

Was there nothing Gert didn’t discuss with virtual strangers? “So to speak. And you are?”

“Karen Manning.”

At Finn’s look of surprise she shook her head and smiled. “No relation to the football Mannings. Unfortunately. I’d sure like some tickets.” She took Drew from Finn, then stuck a thermometer in Drew, not in the mouth, and Finn turned away. She wasn’t squeamish, well, maybe a little, but she figured Drew would appreciate the privacy.

The door opened and Doc Mac entered the room. He was a handsome man of about sixty. He had a full head of thick salt and pepper hair cut short, deep-set dark chocolate eyes and a mouth bracketed by fine lines, indicating a man who smiled often. Finn knew because Gert often spoke of him as an, unfortunately, happily married man with a passel of children and grandchildren. Unlike the awful smock Karen wore, he was dressed in faded, worn blue jeans and a dark red chambray shirt.

Introductions were made, symptoms discussed and a thorough exam ensued. Finn sat in a plastic chair worrying and observing from a safe distance and discreetly checking her watch for the time.

According to Tommy, the subject of the current investigation and his paramour had reservations at Brennan’s for eight. Tommy gave Finn a description of him and the car he’d be driving. She planned on parking outside the restaurant, waiting for them to leave, and then following. Somewhere along the way, snapping a few incriminating photos.

She figured they couldn’t eat and be back on the street in less than ninety minutes so Finn had plenty of time.

“I’d like to keep Drew overnight for observation,” Doc Mac said in his relaxed, deep drawl. “I don’t like his labored breathing. We’ve drawn blood and we’ll take x-rays but it will be a while to get back all the results. I think I know what the problem is, but until I know for sure I can’t get him on the right medication or procedure.”

“What do you think it is?” Finn asked.

“At first guess? Pneumonia.”

“Cats get pneumonia?”

“Sure, they can get almost anything people get.” He turned to go. “Have Karen get your cell phone number and I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”

“Thanks, Doc Mac. I appreciate you seeing me so late and without an appointment.”

“It’s what we’re here for.” He grinned, his hands still stroking Drew’s tabby fur. “Gert is a favorite of ours.”

“And a good customer,” Karen added.

He chuckled. “Of course. That, too. We love Gert. She has such an infectious energy and vitality. If I weren’t already in love with my Grace, I’d be pounding down her door. She’s quite a woman.”

“She is,” Finn agreed. “You’d have to stand in line though.”

He laughed.

Karen picked up Drew, then patted Finn’s arm. “Don’t you worry.”

Doc Mac escorted Finn to the door. “We can’t have our Super Bowl MVP’s namesake down for the count at the start of the season.”

“Thanks, both of you. I’ll be waiting to hear from you then.”

Finn left the clinic still worried about Drew but confident he was in the best hands possible. She prayed she wouldn’t have to give Gert any bad news on her return.

***

In the dank darkness on the bank of the Mississippi, Finn couldn’t make out the couple parked in the car. She’d followed them from Brennan’s where they’d probably paid a fortune for their meal. Brennan’s was one of the chi-chi places to eat in New Orleans. Their reputation was well deserved, but Finn could name a half dozen other restaurants where the food was as good at a fraction of the price. If you gave up service and ambience, which was not necessarily a given, you more than made up for it in your wallet.

Finn’s own restaurant would never be Brennan’s, but it would be fine all the same with the best shrimp and andouille jambalaya in the Quarter, if not the entire city.

She sighed. It cost her nothing to dream, although as she peered into the inky black of the night, the cloud-covered half- moon gave off precious little light. She considered the smelly riverbank might not be the best place to daydream...in the nighttime.

She tiptoed closer, gauging each careful step, edging around weeds and who knew what else, breathing through her mouth to avoid the strange smelly mixture of wet dog and decomposition. She gave a little prayer there weren’t any snakes or other creepy crawlies hiding in the grass.

The couple she was supposed to photograph had chosen a spot to park beneath the wide, overhanging branches of a cottonwood tree, upriver, far from the Riverwalk, the nosy tourists and good lighting. It was proving nearly impossible to get close to the pair without giving herself away.

Damn them. She needed this money shot and unless they got out of the car, she wasn’t going to get it this far from the city’s lights. Flash for the camera was probably out of the question.

Finn slapped at an insect munching on her neck. If she didn’t move out of these thick weeds soon, a voracious mosquito herd was going to reduce her to nothing but one giant, itching red welt.

In a painful crouch, she slipped through the dense undergrowth and came to within ten feet of the car. Any closer and she’d be seen. The soft muddy ground at her feet squelched beneath her sandals. Cold mud oozed up between her toes. She groaned. A tugboat blasted several short whistles in the near distance as it pushed a barge against the strong river current. Rustling in the weeds at her feet made her want to run for her life.

Another mosquito buzzed at her ear and she waved it away. She was ready to leave when the driver’s side door opened, the interior light came on and out stepped the wandering middle-aged husband, tall, lean and sporting a grizzled, graying, week-old beard. Finn sighed in disgust as she snapped her pictures when she saw the heavy chains around his neck, the open-necked white sports shirt displaying a hairy chest and the diamond-studded pinkie ring. He was a walking cliché. She stared with her digital camera squeezed close to her eye when the passenger door opened.

She pressed the button and got several shots of a somewhat chubby, extremely young—okay, be honest, Finn—jailbait-young, girl stepped out. She left her door open washing the near area in the thin light. It illuminated her unlined face.

If she was sixteen, and Finn guessed she was closer to thirteen, for God’s sake, Finn would gracefully admit her mistake, stand on a bench in Jackson Square, naked, and sing the Star Spangled Banner. God. How bad was this?

Should she call Tommy?

Should she call the cops?

Should she start screaming bloody murder?

Or should she grab the girl and hightail it back to her own car parked far away?

She stared, her heart in her throat, as the pervert walked around his sedan. His teenage paramour met him halfway. He leaned her over the back of the car and kissed her bare shoulder.

Finn half expected the jerk to tilt her head, bare his exposed canines and bite her on the fragile column of her neck.

“I vant to bite you on the neck,” he whispered, laughing. Pushing aside her long dark hair, he bit her.

Oh. Dear. God.

The teenager groaned in apparent ecstasy, her hands on the car trunk. His hands roamed over her firm backside as he nibbled her neck. Finn clicked away, ecstatic herself to be getting the shots she wanted, yet disgusted she had to watch this display of male stupidity and possible criminal activity.

“Honeybun?” cooed the young girl.

“Yeah, what is it?” He chewed on her neck much the same way the mosquitoes were chewing on Finn’s. She smacked at another one where it buzzed in her ear, loud as a 747.

“Are we gonna do it right here? Standing up like a couple of cows?”

“I thought you liked it this way, baby.”

“You like it like that, Delbert. I don’t.”

Baby. How accurate. Cradle robbing was more like it. Finn's mind whirred. Should she leave? She had her pictures. She could exit the scene without a sound, but the idea of this pervert getting away with sex with an underage girl rankled.

She made up her mind. Stowing the camera in her pocket, she stiffened her spine. Stomping forward, she yelled, “Hey! Delbert?”

His head lifted. His hand came out from under the girl's shirt where he'd been fondling her pert young breasts. “What the hell?”

“Is that the cops?” she asked in a thin voice.

“Young lady, how old are you?”

“Fourteen.”

She knew it. “What's your name?”

Finn stepped into the light from the car. Up close, the perv wasn't as old as he looked from a distance. Still too old to be with a teenager but the beard was apparently prematurely gray.

“You don't have to answer her, Bonnie.”

“Yes, you do, Bonnie. Bonnie what?”

“Bonnie Blue Beaufort.” She stood at the back of the car, unmoving, her mouth wide, her eyes wider, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides.

Delbert stalked around the car and back to the driver's door. He reached inside, turned the key and started the car. “We're outta here.”

Finn ignored him. “Whoa, interesting name. Parents fans of Gone With The Wind?”

Delbert watched Finn while gesturing for the teenager to get in the car.

“I guess.”

“Get in the car, baby. She's not showing us any ID so she's not a cop. You don't have to say anything to her. Let's go.”

The truth hit Finn like a Saints nose tackle. “You knew all along she was fourteen, didn't you, you jackass pervert.”

“No,” he lied. “She told me she was eighteen.”

“I never did,” Bonnie complained. “You knew exactly how old I was. He promised to buy me a new I-Pod if I'd have sex with him.”

“No way,” Finn said, her pulse pounding in defense of wayward, teenage girls who cut this close a line to prostitution. This could have been Debbie. Finn reacted without thinking about the consequences. She reached the open driver's side door and held onto it as she leaned into the car to turn it off. Delbert tried to wrestle her hand away while attempting to get in the car himself.

“Get in the car,” he bellowed. Bonnie turned toward her door. As she came parallel to the passenger side, Finn reached across Delbert and shoved the gearshift between the seats into first. The car drifted forward and edged closer to the dark riverbank.

Bonnie backed away, and stood watching. Her mouth hung open gaping like a landed trout.

Delbert screeched like a crow, then scrambled to stop the car. His hand fumbled on the gearshift while trying to push Finn out of the way. The car rolled forward. Finn toppled over and landed on her backside in the mud with a cringe-inducing squelch.

She stared, appalled, as the car picked up speed and lurched toward the river. She scrambled to her feet.

Delbert, realizing he couldn't stop the car either, jumped, free falling over Finn in the process.

The car, rolling in slow motion, picked up speed like a sprinter at the tape. It tipped hood first, slipping into the river with a quiet splash. Within minutes, it disappeared into the darkness of the water.

The three of them stood at the bank, mouths open, trying to see past the darkness.

Uh-oh.

Finn may have saved a young girl from a pervert but she was in a world of hurt now. She’d drowned an innocent car.

“Wow,” Bonnie murmured, staring at Finn. “You drowned Delbert's car.”

He stood staring over the water, his hand over his mouth. He removed it to speak. “Not any car either. That was my old man's brand new Buick. He picked it up from the dealership two weeks ago. I promised to take good care of it.”

“You don't have a car?” Finn asked.

“Yes. No. Not at the moment.”

“How old are you?”

“Not that it's any of your damned business but I'm thirty-one.”

“Going on eleven? How do you afford dinner at Brennan’s?”

“You were following us?”

“Yes,” Finn admitted. At this point what did she have to lose?

“Who are you?”

“I’m doing my job.”

“For who?”

“Do you have a wife?”

“Yeah.”

“You do?” Bonnie looked crushed.

“What is wrong with you?” Finn couldn’t contain her outrage. “You borrow your dad’s car so you can impress underage girls and have sex with them, and you have a wife? You’re a degenerate.”

“What do you know? I have a job. I have a car. It’s in the shop. You're the one going to jail for stalking us,” Delbert threatened.

“I doubt it. If anything, you are. You tried to have sex with this girl. She's fourteen, for God’s sake.” Finn pulled out her cell phone and called 9-1-1.

Five minutes later and well into a heated argument with Delbert, the cops arrived. After a ton of accusations, finger pointing and general mayhem, they let everyone go. They arrested no one since no crime had been committed. No sex occurred since Finn intervened. No one deliberately pushed the car into the river even though Delbert insisted Finn had done just that. When she explained her side of the story, that she was trying to save Bonnie from the clutches of an evil, perverted older man, Delbert received a tongue lashing about carousing with teenage girls. The cops didn't ask nor did they seem to care what Finn was doing there in spite of Delbert’s feeble explanations.

He and Bonnie wandered away, probably to get away from Finn. They waited without a word to each other for the tow truck to arrive to pull the car from the river. It hadn't completely drowned. The right side of the rear bumper rose out of the water, the moon glistening off the chrome, like the last hours of the Titanic.

Finn made a feeble attempt to wipe the mud off her backside then she grabbed her backpack and headed for her car. She looked up when Jack arrived and groaned.

“What? Again with the cops? This is becoming a regular occurrence with you.” He wrapped his arm around her shoulder and grinned. “At least this time you didn't get hauled off to jail.”

He walked her to her car, brushed a kiss across her cheek and watched as she drove away. She was so tired she didn’t even want to think what he meant by that tender show of affection.