by L E Fraser
He still had a crime scene kit in his car, left over from when he’d served with the provincial police. There would be a mask with the protective equipment. Reece trudged back to his car and popped the trunk, rummaging around in a box until he found a half-face respirator mask. He took out a pair of protective goggles, gloves, booties, and a handful of large plastic evidence bags. He didn’t have a suit, so he would have to sacrifice his clothes to the cause.
He circled the house to the backyard and trekked down the hill. Outside the building, he donned the booties, mask, goggles, and gloves. He’d move fast, get what he needed, and get out. Reece took a deep breath and stepped into the ghastly room.
A maroon starburst soiled the wall behind an expensive, ergonomic desk chair. Clumps of hair and bone clung to the wall, glued to the dried blood spatter. More blood and brain matter stained the deep-piled beige carpet beneath the chair. Reece averted his eyes from the gruesome death scene and turned his attention to an enormous white board on the adjacent wall. Harold had created an investigation board, complete with red strings linking photos and index cards. Printed in thick black marker on the cards were dates and addresses. In the centre of the white metal board was a blurry, five-by-seven picture of a drone. The logistics made no sense. From what Reece could discern, the web of red string didn’t link any commonalities. He pulled at the edges of the heavy board and found that thick screws anchored it to the wall. He stood back again, thinking. It was too large to fit in his car anyway. He’d have to recreate the schematic at the office. Reece took out his phone, snapped numerous photos, and removed all the photos and index cards from the board, tucking them into one of the plastic evidence bags that he’d brought from the car.
Harold’s laptop was open on the desk; it, too, was covered in blood spatter. On top of a black metal file cabinet, Reece found a pop-up container of disinfectant wipes. He pulled one free and scrubbed the laptop screen. It took ten sheets before he was able to dislodge the crusted gore. Grimacing, he snapped open a second evidence bag and sealed the contaminated laptop inside the protective plastic. He swatted at a fly that landed on his forearm. His skin crawled and itched as he quickly searched the desk drawers and metal filing cabinets. On top of his other repulsive traits, Harold had had a liking for sadistic pornography. His preference was young girls. Very young. Reece flipped quickly through a stack of Asian snuff magazines; the obscene content made his stomach roil. Eager to get out of the vile place, he took a final look around the two bedrooms and full bath. Satisfied he hadn’t missed anything drone-related; he exited the building, stripped off the goggles, mask, and gloves, and locked one of the deadbolts. He tucked the keys behind the central air unit.
Back at his car, he put the wrapped laptop, the bag of photos and index cards, and his protective gear in the trunk and walked back to Susan’s house. From the porch, he called Eli.
“Can you do me a favour?” he asked.
“What do you need?”
“Call a crime scene cleaning company and arrange for them to come to the address I just texted you. Sam should have one listed in the agency’s contacts. Have them charge us directly. It’s the building in the back and I left the keys behind the air conditioner. Ask them not to bother the homeowner.”
“I am on it.” Eli hung up and Reece knocked on Susan’s door.
She answered the door more quickly than she had the first time. “Get what you needed?”
“Yes. I arranged for a company to come and clean Harold’s office, and—”
“What? They charge three-hundred dollars an hour,” she yelled. “They could have a party down there and I’d be none the wiser.” Her curled hand shook and her small eyes filled with tears. “I can’t pay the bill. Why would you do this?”
Reece gently grasped her fluttering hand. “I run a private investigation agency with my fiancée,” he said. “We know an honest company and you won’t be charged.”
“I don’t take charity.” Tears dripped down her face.
Reece squeezed her hand. “It’s not.” A white lie to comfort the proud woman wouldn’t hurt. “The city will reimburse us. You can trust me, Susan.”
Her face relaxed. “You’re a kind man,” she said. “The first one I’ve ever met. Your fiancée is a lucky woman.”
Reece smiled. “Nope, I’m the lucky one.” He took one of his PI agency business cards from his pocket and tucked it into her hand. “If you need anything, call me.”
She nodded and returned his smile before she shut the door.
He walked back to his car and stood for a moment gazing at the dilapidated house that was at odds with the modern building in the backyard that Harold had occupied.
Reece did not condone murder. It was black and white. There was no grey area. Yet he couldn’t silence a niggling voice inside his head.
Society was better off without Harold Taylor in it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Journal
MY MOTHER AND father loved each other with an intensity that reduced everything around them to white noise. Whenever Dad deployed to some war-torn country to save godforsaken women and children from the tyranny of a patriarchal dictatorship, my mother would float weightlessly inside her fantasy world until his return.
When we moved off the Fort Polk army base to that isolated property on the Bayou Teche, the solitude created the perfect backdrop for Mom’s imaginings. My sister, Pearl, and I would follow her down the rabbit hole, where our ancestors were southern aristocrats who held balls for Old Savannah grandees and Mom wore gowns spun from the finest Asian silk.
But after 9/11, that rabbit hole warped into a petrifying abyss.
I was thirteen when the planes hit the World Trade Center and over three thousand people perished. A year later—a day after my fourteenth birthday—my father received his orders to ship out to Afghanistan. Before he left, he took me to Lafayette.
“You can’t do this alone,” he said. “Fourteen is too young.”
I straightened my back and put my elbow out the car window. “Done it before. You ever come home to trouble?”
“Blu…” He trailed off with a sigh and didn’t speak again until he turned off the main road and onto a lane bordered with towering oak trees.
“This deployment is not like the others,” he said sadly. “Pearl and Mom don’t understand the significance, but you know why I have to go.”
Seared into my brain were the images of New Yorkers stampeding through an apocalyptic tidal wave of blinding smoke as glass and shrapnel lashed their faces. I understood what those animals had done, and I was proud of my father’s decision to fight against the horror of terrorism.
“Pearl and Mom are safe with me,” I said with a teen’s naivety. “Always are.”
“Mom is different now. You need help to keep away the authorities.” He didn’t elaborate but the regret in his voice made me turn to look at him.
“Where are we going? Why did you make me wear this stuff?” I was dressed in my best clothes, which were uncomfortable and itchy in the cloying humidity.
The red roof of a looming brick mansion materialized above the treeline. We continued along the elegant, oak-lined lane to a grand entrance. My father stopped the truck and climbed from the driver’s side, waiting for me to join him. “Never tell your mother I brought you here,” he muttered hoarsely, refusing to meet my eyes.
We walked up a flight of majestic stone steps flanked by towering white columns. Southern magnolia trees shaded a porch decorated with stylish wicker furniture strategically placed just so. Above each chic seating arrangement, a row of ceiling fans moved in leisurely swishes. Intricately painted ceramic pots, the rims of which came to my chest, flanked an ornate front door with wrought iron fixtures. Vibrant coloured blossoms cascaded down the sides of the urns and the humid air was laden with the scent of sweet olive and roses.
Dad rang an ornamental doorbell and stood at parade rest, a military posture I mimicked. A cold shiv
er of dread ran down my back.
A butler opened the door and his eyes widened with recognition. He nodded silently, quietly closed the door, and we waited. When a portly man with coiffured grey hair opened the door, he looked my father up and down with no expression. His black serpent eyes skimmed over my face before a mask of contempt fell across his features and he turned away, dismissing me as insignificant. My grandfather spoke just one sentence before shutting the door: “You made your bed. Now lie in it with your Yankee whore and the urchins she spawned.”
The ugliness of those words made me feel dirty and worthless. My father’s slumped shoulders and the tremble in his hand shamed me. This righteous man had stood meek beneath the steely gaze of an entitled snob who denied his own blood. Hate coiled around my heart and squeezed until it became a palpable ache.
No words could soften my humiliation or my father’s shame, so we travelled home in tense silence, driving through the opening in the limestone wall and up the dirt lane to our house. In the yard, my father turned off the truck and stared through the cracked windshield at his wife and daughter. Mom and Pearl were playing under the cypress tree, both of them breathtaking in the coral-tinged light from the setting sun. Their lilting laughter glided on a breeze that drifted off the Teche. They were perfection incarnate. The stranglehold of hate toward my grandfather intensified.
“You’re young, but you have depth and stability.” My father’s wistful expression softened the rigid lines of his profile. “Blood joins us all, and I wish your grandfather was a better man. I have to rely on you to keep our fairies safe.” He turned to look at me. “I’ll take what money we have from the bank. It’ll be enough to keep you going for a year, if you’re careful. Never use your mother’s bank card. Pay cash. Go into Breaux Bridge only once a month or so. Never go to the same store twice. Mind your business, child. Understand?”
I did. The city was small—only about eight thousand locals. Someone would question why I was frequenting the grocery store alone. My presence would remind them that they hadn’t seen my mother in town. That couldn’t happen. The Department of Children’s and Family Services would pay us a visit. It had happened once before. This time, they’d take us away. They would institutionalize my cherished sister, and probably have my mother locked away in an asylum.
“I know what to do,” I said. When the cash ran out, we’d live off the bayou. I would never do anything that could put Pearl’s happiness at risk.
“Hospitals are enemy territory,” he said. “I’ll leave three Unit One Packs and some suture kits. Your sutures are better than mine.”
My chest swelled with pride. I’d practised on bananas and a piece of denim for hours, until I mastered the half-curved needle. He’d taught me subcutaneous and intravenous injections and airway management. With the supplies in the combat kits, I could provide emergency medical care for my mother and sister so we could avoid inquisitive doctors.
“You’re like that deep-rooted cypress tree—strong, resilient, and unwavering,” he said pensively. “You have a unique instinct to understand a person’s true desire and to give them what they yearn for.” His eyes shifted from the tree to me. “Your mother is fragile, Blu, and your sister is special. People don’t understand them. Without understanding, cruelty reigns. While I’m gone, people will be your greatest threat.”
The high, two-syllable whistle of a Mississippi kite sounded from the bayou. “I can keep them away,” I told him. “Done it before.” My eyes followed the kite’s streamlined silhouette across the sky.
He held my hand between both of his. “You have an old soul, Blu. I wish it didn’t have to be like this. I wish there was family to help.”
My sister shaded her eyes against the sun and a radiant smile lit her face when she spotted our truck. Pearl was autistic and she rarely spoke. When she did, her eyes would flit across the heavens and her finger would tap the rhythm of her words against the air. My mother claimed that the archangels had wept with joy at her birth and their celestial tears had dripped against her brow, transforming Pearl into a living cherub.
As I watched my sister run toward us, hate toward my grandfather gurgled in the pit of my stomach. Someday, he would not dismiss my family as paltry. Someday, I’d strip away his dignity in the same callous way he had stripped away ours and leave him to die in his burning mansion. Someday, he’d pay for denying my sister.
I climbed from the truck, stripping off my trousers and shirt as I ran to meet Pearl. Clad only in my underwear, I tugged her to the mud boat. Together, we pulled it into the Teche, and I relished the coolness of the water against my heated skin and the sweet sound of her innocent laughter. We caught catfish until a riot of colours from the setting sun painted the Louisiana sky in abstract hues of pink and orange. Mom fried our bounty on an outdoor fire pit and Dad sang Cajun folk songs until the splinter of a new moon climbed high into the molasses sky.
Hours later, I watched from my bedroom window as my parents waltzed beneath our cypress tree. They swayed in perfect synchronization and profound despondency overwhelmed me. I wept as they danced to music only they could hear, dreading his forthcoming absence and fearing that I could not keep the vow I had pledged.
It was a dire premonition that would come true.
Shortly after Dad deployed to Afghanistan, Mom slipped into an impregnable cavern of depression. Without his presence to anchor her to reality, Mom’s mind glided into the ethereal mist that cloaked the bayou. A year into my father’s tour of duty, her essence had vanished to a place I could not reach. Late at night, I would stare down the road from my bedroom window and rage would rise like a tsunami in my chest. Less than twenty miles away, in his grandiose mansion in Lafayette, my wealthy grandfather smoked cigars and sipped bourbon from a crystal glass, indifferent toward his suffering daughter-in-law and destitute grandchildren.
A year after my father’s deployment—just after I’d turned fifteen—the money ran out. Pearl contributed to our survival without understanding her gift. She tended a vegetable garden, and maybe my mother was right and the angels had blessed Pearl because every plant she touched grew hearty. But she refused to eat them because she claimed to hear the vegetables cry out in pain when I pulled them from the earth or cut them from their stems. The bayou was rich with fish but Pearl wouldn’t eat the moist white flakes of a catfish or suck the flesh from a crawfish. The only game she’d eat was wild rabbit, never associating the rich meat with the swamp rabbits she’d spy in the eelgrass and beaked tassel weed. But rabbits were hard to hunt in the swamp because of their surprising agility in the water. If I suffered an accident, my sister and mother would be vulnerable to authorities. So, when the cash ran out after the first year, I hunted swamp rats, which tasted similar to wild rabbit.
At night, I’d lie beside Pearl and stroke her smooth cheek, revelling in the pure love that flowed from her being. I’d chant the verses of a Cajun lullaby, and she’d sing the chorus. I would stay by her side with my arm entwined in hers until she was fast asleep. When I was certain she wouldn’t wake and follow me, I’d sneak outside with a lightweight Remington. With only the moon for light, I’d wait motionless on the riverbank with my back pressed against the trunk of a black cottonwood tree that towered above me, its branches disappearing into the inky sky. Smoke-coloured fog would drift from the algae-covered water, and the haze would shroud the feathery nexus of eerie Spanish moss in a mystical aura. Hours would pass before I caught a glimpse of the arched brown body and dragging chest of a nutria, the infamous rodent that plagued Louisiana. When the giant swamp rat with its bright orange buckteeth lumbered to shore, trailing its ten-inch tail behind it, I’d exhale and fire. On a good night, I could pick off several and be gone before anyone cared to trace the shots.
I sold each tail to a man with a licence to hunt nutria. Cyril was notorious on the bayou for consorting with lowlifes. Rumour was that he held ties to the New Orleans mob. My father had warned me many times to stay away from the m
an. It was a promise I could not keep. Cyril was the only person willing to pay for the tails without asking questions. The stipend I received was enough to buy milk for Pearl.
I didn’t miss a day of school and was always dressed in clean clothing. The overworked teachers never suspected that I was single-handedly caring for my mentally ill mother and autistic sister.
But someone knew. Someone had lurked behind the veils of Spanish moss that hung from the trees along the Teche, watching us and waiting for his opportunity. Someone had coveted Pearl’s beauty and innocence, and ultimately, he pilfered what he viewed as his entitlement.
On the night that altered the trajectory of our lives, I tumbled over Pearl’s broken body curled beneath the cypress tree. My gory cache of swamp rats dropped against her side with a wet smack. Hurling them off her, I plunged to my knees and screamed. I wailed at the dark, and at the inhuman beast that had vanished into the night. I cursed a God who had allowed such evil to be done to a child of innocence. My guttural cries, laden with sorrow at my failure to protect her and filled with my vows of retribution, ripped apart the stillness of the night. But there was no one to hear. There was no one to sense a flicker of dread. He had stolen what he craved and had vanished into the mist.
She’d curled her ravaged body into a tight ball and was rocking in the river silt. He’d draped her nightgown around her neck in concertina folds, and I dug her beaten face from the bloodstained pleats. Folds of swollen skin encased her right eye and a savage ring of bruises rose against the delicate skin of her neck. A serrated blade had slashed her forearms in ragged lines. A torn clump of her long platinum hair slithered across the back of my hand to fall beside her trembling shoulder. When I tried to lift her, a river of blood ran down her battered thighs and pooled into black puddles in my palms.