Louisiana Fever
Page 26
“That they were, but . . .”
“Would you have said you’d felt wanted and protected?”
“Yes.”
“And loved?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“The lie . . .”
“Forgive me for buttin’ in, but you’re makin’ entirely too much of that. People make mistakes. To expect otherwise is unrealistic.”
“You don’t lie.”
“Lord, don’t look to me. I’ve got plenty of faults. You just showed me one with Blackledge. As for lyin’, I might do it, if the stakes were high enough—if, for example, I thought the truth would upset someone I cared for. I might very well lie . . . and so might you. None of us knows what we’ll do in a tough situation until we confront it. Don’t set such high standards for other people. Our friends and loved ones deserve better.”
“I’m not even sure what love means anymore.”
“Now you’re pushin’ me into an area I have some trouble with myself. If I could get to my ’cyclopedia of practical quotations, I might be able to say somethin’ memorable. Without it, I’m pretty limited. Can’t even think of anything useful Babe Ruth ever said. I do know, though, that now I’ve been given a few more years, I’m gonna try to be less judgmental and make sure I enjoy every day left to me. And I’d like to see you do the same. What do you say we make a pact to do that . . . you and me, right now.”
“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I didn’t just dent a fender on my car. I found out half my DNA came from a con man. What does that make me?”
“Nothin’ more or nothin’ less than what you were before you found out.”
Kit had come hoping Broussard would say something to make sense of all that had happened. A better person would have come to comfort him. Suddenly, she felt too ashamed of her behavior to remain.
“I’m sorry, I have to go. Forgive me for being so self-centered. I love it that you’re getting better. It shows that sometimes the right things happen.” She leaned down, kissed him on the forehead, and hurried to the door, where she paused, her hand on the pull. Looking back at Broussard, she said, “Where’s Jack’s body?”
“Still in the morgue.”
“Do you think I could have it released to me?”
“It’s infectious, so I expect the Health Department will order it cremated.”
“Would they let me arrange a place for the ashes?”
“Don’t see why not. I’ll mention that to ’em.”
A few minutes after Kit left, Broussard received another visitor—Ruth Lamm, the hospital infection-control officer, wearing a frilly pink dress, her gray hair perfectly coiffed. She was holding a small azalea whose flowers matched the color of her dress.
“I thought this might brighten things up,” she said, putting it on the window ledge.
“And so it does,” Broussard said.
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m startin’ to hate this room.”
“That’s good. It means you’re getting better. I heard how you tracked down the source of the virus. That was fine work.”
“I was lucky.”
“I doubt that.” There was a pause, during which she began smoothing her dress and fidgeting with her hair, obviously uncomfortable over something on her mind. Finally, she said, “I was wondering if . . . That is . . . Oh, hell, I might as well say it straight out. There’s a tractor pull and a monster truck show at the dome two weeks from Saturday night. Would you like to go, assuming you’re feeling up to it? If you’ve never seen a monster truck crush cars in person, it’s something you really should try.”
There wasn’t a defense counsel in the country who could trip Broussard up with an unexpected question. Even when students asked him about things he hadn’t considered in years, the answers came without effort. The juxtaposition, though, of monster trucks and Ruth Lamm cast him adrift.
The event, of course, was one he wouldn’t even think of attending, and she sure wasn’t what he was looking for in a woman, not that he was looking at all. At least those were positions held by the old Broussard. But as he’d told Kit, he was no longer that man. And to prove it, he said, “Sure, why not.”
“Good,” she said. “We can firm up the details later. Now I’ve got some work to do.” She went to the door, then turned around. “By the way, if you don’t want people at the tractor pull staring at you, you might consider leaving at home the string on your glasses and that goofy bow tie you usually wear.”
KIT WALKED TO THE elevators and got on. Howard was her stepfather . . . and he and her mother had kept that from her for decades. It was impossible. Broussard was asking too much to expect her to understand. He’d feel exactly as she did if it happened to him. No . . . it was too much.
Kit rode down two floors, where she got off and made her way to the room number she’d been given by hospital information. Inside, she found Nick Lawson, propped up in bed, reading a paperback copy of Deliverance, surgical bandages covering his left cheek and most of his neck.
“You don’t look so bad,” she said, walking to the bed.
Lawson put his book down and picked up a stick of chalk and a small slate on which he wrote, “Where are my flowers?”
“I thought a real man like you wouldn’t want any.”
With an eraser from the nightstand, he wiped the slate clean, so the dust fell into a shallow plastic container lying beside him. He pecked at the board with the chalk and turned the message toward her.
“Explanation accepted.”
“Will you be able to talk again eventually?” she asked.
He erased the board and wrote again. “Able now. Doc says not to.”
“I hear you were responsible for scaring the kidnappers off just when the cops were on their way.”
The chalk clicked over the board. “I had a bad day. Surprised to see you.”
“I’m sorry you were hurt.”
He used the chalk again. “How about a pity date?”
Kit hesitated, wavering, Broussard’s advice chipping away at the anger she still felt at Teddy’s confession, reminding her of all they’d gone through together with Roy and Larry and all the good times before those two had come along, and how Teddy had not only saved her life there at the end but had long ago given it a center.
“Tell you what . . . you get better and I’ll take you to dinner at a place that serves a very tasty white shark special. They’ll even let you get in the tank and catch the one you want. Not a date, just a thanks for trying to help.”
Lawson wrote again. “Want to get in here with me?”
Before Kit could reply, a nurse came in with a tray of materials. “I’m sorry to interrupt your visit, but it’s time for me to change Mr. Lawson’s dressings.”
“I have some things to do, anyway,” Kit said. She looked at Lawson. “Let me know when you’re ready for that shark.”
She then went to her car and returned home, where she left a message of apology on Teddy’s answering machine in Bayou Coteau, then picked up the paper to look for a new place to live.
About the Author
I grew up in Sylvania, Ohio, a little suburb of Toledo, where the nearby stone quarries produce some of the best fossil trilobites in the country. I know that doesn’t sound like much to be proud of, but we’re simple people in Ohio. After obtaining a bachelor’s degree at the U. of Toledo, I became a teacher of ninth grade general science in Sylvania, occupying the same desk my high school chemistry and physics teacher used when he tried unsuccessfully to teach me how to use a slide rule. I lasted six months as a public school teacher, lured away into pursuit of a Ph.D. by Dr. Katoh, a developmental biologist I met in a program to broaden the biological knowledge of science teachers. Katoh’s lectures were unlike anything I’d ever heard in college. He related his discipline as a series of detective stories that had me on the edge of my chair. Stimulated to seek the master who trained Katoh, I moved to New Orleans and spent five years
at Tulane working on a doctorate in human anatomy. Stressed by graduate work, I hated New Orleans. When Mardi Gras would roll around, my wife and I would leave town. It wasn’t until many years later, after the painful memories of graduate school had faded and I’d taught microscopic anatomy to thousands of students at the U. of Tennessee Medical School in Memphis (not all at the same time) and published dozens of papers on wound healing that I suddenly felt the urge to write novels. And there was only one place I wanted to write about . . . mysterious, sleazy, beautiful New Orleans. Okay, so I’m kind of slow to appreciate things.
Photo by Jennifer Brommer
Practically from the moment I decided to try my hand at fiction, I wanted to write about a medical examiner. There’s just something appealing about being able to put a killer in the slammer using things like the stomach contents of the victim or teeth impressions left in a bite mark. Contrary to what the publisher’s blurb said on a couple of my books, I’m not a forensic pathologist. To gear up for the first book in the series, I spent a couple of weeks hanging around the county forensic center where Dr. Jim Bell taught me the ropes. Unfortunately, Jim died unexpectedly after falling into a diabetic coma a few months before the first book was published. Though he was an avid reader, he never got to see a word of the book he helped me with. In many ways, Jim lives on as Broussard. Broussard’s brilliant mind, his weight problem, his appreciation of fine food and antiques, his love for Louis L’Amour novels . . . that was Jim Bell. When a new book comes out, Jim’s wife always buys an armful and sends them to Jim’s relatives.
My research occasionally puts me in interesting situations. Some time ago, I accompanied a Memphis homicide detective to a rooming house where we found a man stuck to the floor by a pool of his own blood, his throat cut, and a big knife lying next to the body. Within a few minutes, I found myself straddling the blood, holding a paper bag for the detective to collect the victim’s personal effects. A short time later, after I’d listened to the cops on the scene discuss the conflicting stories they were getting from the occupants, the captain of the general investigation bureau turned to me and said, “What do you think happened?” The house is full of detectives and he’s asking my opinion. I pointed out a discrepancy I’d noticed in the story told by the occupant who found the body and next thing I know, he’s calling all the other detectives over so I can tell them. Later, we took this woman in for questioning. I wish I could say I solved the crime, but it didn’t turn out that glamorous. They eventually ruled it a suicide.
Forthcoming from Astor + Blue Editions including a brand
new Andy Broussard/Kit Franklyn mystery