Mean Woman Blues

that David knew everyone there. He was no stranger; he had friends, he had bona fides. It was all a big mistake. She was about to say more, but no one was interested anymore. The other three were exchanging glances. The bad cop— the unrumpled one— got up and left the room.
    “What’s happening?” she said.
    For the first time, the woman spoke. “I’m so sorry for what happened to you.”
    That confused her. “What happened to me? You know about the baby?”
    The two of them looked straight at her, pointedly didn’t look at each other. The man said, “What about the baby, Mrs. Wright?”
    Karen spoke to the woman. “How do you know about that?”
    “Talk to me, Mrs. Wright,” the man said, and she had a sudden, terrible fear that he was going to send the woman away.
    Karen said, “Who are you? Who are you both?”
    The man said, “Special Agent Turner Shellmire. And this is Detective Skip Langdon, New Orleans Police Department. She’s here in an unofficial capacity only.”
    Langdon.
This was why the woman’s face was familiar. Her picture was on Karen’s husband’s bulletin board, with a thumbtack through the nose. He hated her. Maybe she was framing him for all this. Maybe that explained it. But she was sympathetic, Karen could sense it. No cop was that good an actor.
    “I can’t talk to you?” she said.
    “You need to talk to Agent Shellmire.”
    Karen had been distracted by those few moments away from the issue, taken a few moments to collect herself. She breathed deeply. These people had broken into her house, handcuffed her, falsely imprisoned her, and bullied her. And her father was one of the most influential men in Dallas.
    Not that she could trust him.
    But she’d have to. Surely he’d come down and get her out of this.
    Suddenly she had a better idea. “What if I want to talk to you?” she said to the woman.
    “You need to talk to Agent Shellmire,” Langdon repeated.
    That was unacceptable. These people couldn’t do this to her unless they arrested her. She blurted, “Am I under arrest or am I free to go?”
    They both shifted uncomfortably. No one answered. Finally, Shellmire spoke. “Excuse us for a moment.” They left her alone again.
    They haven’t decided
, she realized.
They’ve gone to talk about whether they believe me.
    They were back in ten minutes. She stood up without giving them a chance to speak. “I’m going to leave now unless you arrest me.”
    Shellmire said, “Sit down, please.”
    “You’re not letting me go?” She couldn’t believe it.
    “We’re arresting you.” Just like that. No explanation, no nothing.
    “For what? I haven’t done anything.”
    “For harboring a fugitive.”
    Tears of fury flowed into her eyes. She kept her voice even. “I’d like to talk to my attorney.”
    “Very well,” Shellmire said.
    She phoned her uncle, State Senator Guy McLean.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
    Isaac couldn’t move. He was in a strange bed. Nothing felt right. In fact, something hurt; he just wasn’t sure what. And in his dream, there was something awful happening. Something very scary that only he could stop. It was a really unpleasant dream, one of those disconcerting early-morning dreams. He stirred and tried to go back under. Instead, his mind drifted, and came to focus: Terri. This was no dream. He had to save Terri.
    His eyes flipped open.
    “Isaac! Omigod, you’re back!” It was Lovelace who was squealing, not Terri. She wore denim shorts and a halter T-shirt that covered only half her midriff.
    “You had your navel pierced.” He was riveted.
    “Omigod, you’re fine!” She bent over his bed to hug him, jarring something that really hurt. “I’ve got to get a nurse in here.” She fiddled with some mechanism on his bed.
    He realized for the first time that he was in a hospital room. It was his head that hurt. He tried wiggling his toes and fingers; things seemed to work okay.
    “What happened?” he said, like someone in an old movie, but Lovelace had no time to answer before the room was overrun with doctors and nurses welcoming him back to the world with their own little agendas.
    First a nurse came in and then a doctor, a female neurosurgery resident. They told him where he was— Charity Hospital in New Orleans— and what had happened— that he had a gunshot wound to the head, a grazing wound, he was very lucky, but there was a slight skull fracture and he was probably going to have something called “postconcussion