by Jana DeLeon
The man grabbed his shoulder again and rolled him over. They must be at an overhang on the bank of the swamp. The man was going to roll him off of it and into the water. Scratch said a prayer and waited for the inevitable drop. The man rolled him over once more and suddenly, he felt the ground disappear beneath him.
It took only a couple of seconds before he hit the water, but it felt like forever…almost as if he were suspended in midair. As soon as he hit the water, he took in a deep breath, reached up with the broken link, and dug into the tarp. He had to get an opening big enough to put his hands into. Then, if he was strong enough, he could tear the tarp.
You’re strong enough.
He repeated the words over and over again as he tore at the tarp with the tiny piece of metal. Water seeped through the tarp and he felt his body falling and falling. He stopped thinking about how far he was sinking and focused on the tarp. He felt it rip and jabbed the link into the hole, pulling as hard as he could. It opened a couple of inches and he put the link between his lips and stuck his fingers in both sides, yanking them to make the hole larger.
It gave another couple of inches, but it wasn’t enough. He felt something jab into his back and realized he’d hit bottom. His lungs started to burn, and he let out a bit of the air he’d been holding to relieve the pressure. He grabbed the tarp with both hands and pulled again, this time gaining a gap of about a foot, but the exertion also forced the remaining air out of his body in a giant whoosh.
Panicking, he grabbed the tarp once more and pulled so hard he felt his shoulder pop. The tarp split and he forced his body through the hole, then pushed off the bottom and swam for the surface, praying that the man had left as soon as the deed was done and wasn’t standing at the overhang waiting.
He looked up, trying to see light in the murky water, but all he saw was brown. His chest started to convulse, and he clamped his mouth shut, trying to control his body’s natural attempt to draw in oxygen. He kicked harder and flapped his arms as fast as he could, ignoring the burning in his right shoulder.
Just when he thought he didn’t have one second more of air left, he broke the surface of the water and dragged in a huge breath, choking on it as he did. He twisted his head up to look at the overhang and relief coursed through him when he saw it was empty. He began paddling toward the bank downstream, just in case the man hadn’t left yet. Twenty feet away was a thick growth of trees and brush. He should be able to exit the water there without being seen.
When he reached the bank, he grabbed a set of roots and tried to pull himself up, but his shoulder gave out and he let out an involuntary yelp. He ducked low in the water, hiding behind the roots and peering back at the overhang, but the man never appeared. He eased out from under the roots and paddled a little farther downstream where the bank was shallow enough to crawl up.
Using his legs and one arm, he managed to get up the bank, then collapsed in the marsh grass, gasping for air. He reached over with his left hand and felt his shoulder. The protrusion was obvious and he yelped again as his fingers ran over it. Using his one good arm, he struggled to his feet and staggered up the bank. As he neared the overhang, he slowed, making sure the van was gone before he walked out into the clearing.
A dirt trail led away from the clearing so he set out on it, clutching his shoulder. He stumbled every other step on the uneven ground. Everything in front of him grew blurry and he felt his body start to give out. He forced his eyes open as wide as he could get them and started singing, trying to keep his mind awake.
Twinkle, twinkle little star
How I wonder what you are.
He couldn’t remember the rest of the lyrics, so he sang those two lines over and over and over again as he forced one foot in front of the other. When he couldn’t go another step, he fell onto his knees and crawled until he reached a fork in the trail. He looked up and down the stretch of dirt but he could have been in a thousand different places in the backwoods of Louisiana. Nothing stood out.
He tried to stand up again but his ravaged body couldn’t handle anything more. He collapsed on the trail, his captors’ conversation back in the house replaying in his mind. The last thought he had before he lost consciousness was that the angry man who gave the orders had a familiar voice. It was someone he’d met before. He just couldn’t quite grasp who.
Chapter Sixteen
Shaye clutched the steering wheel as she pulled up in front of her apartment. It was almost eight o’clock, and the sun was starting to drift down behind the buildings. Corrine had begged her to stay at her house for the night, but Shaye had needed to get out, away from Corrine and Eleonore. Alone where she could process everything she’d learned. But now she didn’t want to go into her apartment and sit there alone.
You’re a mess.
It had been a long time since she’d felt so disjointed. So spacey. She killed the engine and let go of the steering wheel. What the hell was she supposed to do now? First thing tomorrow, she’d call the apartment manager and get access to the unit, but that left a long night stretching before her. Somehow, she didn’t think Netflix and a root beer float were going to make it go any faster.
She glanced at her watch. Eight o’clock. A whole two minutes had passed while she was sitting here and it had felt like an hour. No way could she go inside. All the showers and beers in the world weren’t going to make her relax. She needed something to do. She pulled out her phone and brought up her Favorites. Her finger hovered over Jackson’s number as she wavered with indecision.
He needed to know about the angle she’d drummed up with Johnny Rivette, but was she calling him for business or because she wanted to talk to someone other than her mother and Eleonore? Given the juicy nature of the situation, she had little doubt that Jackson had already heard about the latest revelation into her mysterious past. The precinct was probably buzzing with the news. Which meant she wouldn’t have to explain it to Jackson.
Shaye believed that Jackson would be concerned for her, but he didn’t have the investment in her life that Corrine and Eleonore did. The entire time she was at her mother’s house, she could feel them watching her, as if they were waiting for something to happen. Maybe a breakdown? Shaye had known she had to get out of there before being under a microscope was what triggered it.
Before she could change her mind, she touched the phone, dialing Jackson. He answered on the first ring.
“Shaye? Is everything all right?”
The uncertainty in his voice left no doubt that he’d already heard about her birth mother. “I have some information for you about the case, but first, I need a favor.”
“Okay.”
She smiled. “Just like that? You’re not even going to ask what the favor is?”
“I didn’t think I needed to.”
“You might change your mind after I tell you. I’m sure you heard that I got some news today.”
“Someone mentioned it.”
“I’ve got the number for the apartment manager. I want to go see that apartment.”
“Right now?”
“Yes. If I wait until tomorrow, my mother and Eleonore will insist on going with me, and I won’t be able to…feel if they’re there. I know that sounds crazy and weird—”
“No. It doesn’t. Are you at home? I’ll pick you up.”
“I can drive us.”
“I need more responsibility than being a passenger,” he said. “I’m in the neighborhood. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
Her next call was to the apartment manager. He took a little coaxing, but finally agreed to meet her at the apartment in twenty minutes and provide her with a key. She slipped her phone into her pocket and climbed out of her SUV. She paced the sidewalk down to the end of the block, then back to the corner three times before Jackson pulled around the corner in his undercover car. Shaye pulled open the door and hopped in before he even came to a complete stop.
He checked the address in GPS, and as he pulled away, he looked over at her.<
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“How are you holding up?” he asked.
“Good. I guess. My mind is sorta all over the place between this and the case.”
“I bet. Tell you what, on the way to the apartment, let’s talk about the case. Then by the time we get there, we’ll both be up to date and you can concentrate on that without your attention being split. You go first.”
“I like that idea,” Shaye said, and filled him in on the trip to the pawnshop, her visit with Johnny and Rick Rivette, and the follow-up with John Clancy.
When she finished, Jackson shook his head. “Johnny Rivette. He’s bad news. You think he knows something?”
“Honestly, I have no idea. Rick is hiding something, but I have no way of knowing if it’s something he didn’t want me to know or something he didn’t want his uncle to know. Johnny is a professional liar. I’m not sure a polygraph would trip him up.”
“You might be right about that. I’ll do some checking…see what the cops got on him before. Maybe it’s something. Maybe not.”
Shaye nodded. “What about you? Did you get anything else on Father Michael?”
“Oh yeah. I had a very busy day chasing after information on our priest.” Jackson told her about his visit with Bradley Thompson’s mother and then his diversion into the Peter Carlin case.
“Holy crap,” she said when he was done. “I never would have thought the cases were related.”
“I wanted to call you right after I spoke with Mrs. Carlin and ask about the mask, but given the other situation, I figured I’d wait until I heard from you.”
“It sounds like what Hustle described. He said he was going to check some of the shops in the French Quarter and see if he could find one like it. If not, he promised to pick up some colored pencils and sketch it. I know it doesn’t do anything to forward the case, but he needs to feel like he’s doing something.”
Jackson nodded. “And if you give him assignments, you have some level of control over what he’s doing.”
“Exactly. I don’t want a repeat of last night. If something happens to that kid on my watch…”
Jackson looked over at her. “Nothing’s going to happen to him. You’ve got him set up in the best possible situation. He’s smart. He knows how to avoid trouble, and last night was a big wake-up call. He’ll be even more careful now.”
“I hope so, but he’s still a teen. A teen with pride, a big heart, and a good dose of tough guy. I just hope the smart side wins out.”
“Me too.”
“So what next?” Shaye asked.
“I’ll get what I can on Rivette, but I think we need to take a harder look at Father Michael.” He pulled to a stop in front of a run-down apartment building. “This is the place. I’m glad you asked me to come with you.”
Shaye nodded. Neither the building nor the street was an area she would feel completely comfortable in alone, especially getting toward dark. She climbed out of the car and they headed for the entrance. An older man with silver hair and a dirty shirt stood by the front door.
“You Shaye Archer?” he asked.
“Yes. Are you the manager?”
The man nodded and handed her a key. “Unit 114. You want anything in there, it’s yours. Just get it out before Thursday.”
“Wait!” Shaye said as he started to walk away. “Is there anything you can tell me about Lydia?”
“She lived here twelve years on the taxpayers’ dime. I don’t know anything beyond that. The less I know about these people the better.” He turned around and headed down the sidewalk.
Shaye watched as he walked away. “He was pleasant.”
Jackson shrugged. “Typical. If he doesn’t know what goes on with his tenants, he can’t be compelled to talk to the police about it and be blamed for allowing it to happen.”
Shaye turned to face the apartment entrance but didn’t make a move to open the door. Jackson stood calmly beside her, not saying a word. She knew he had to be anxious, but he wasn’t showing any sign of it. It was both comforting and irritating. She drew in a breath and blew it out.
“Let’s get this over with,” she said, and entered the apartment building.
She headed down the hallway to the unit the manager had indicated. The door had flaking baby-blue paint and was missing the molding over the top. Shaye slipped the key into the lock and pushed the door open. The apartment was pitch black, so she felt inside the door for a light switch. When she clicked it on, she got her first look at the place she might have lived.
It wasn’t much to look at. In fact, it looked a lot like the condemned building Jinx had been sleeping in. One room formed kitchen and living room, a tiny stove and refrigerator against the far wall, sink on the wall around the corner. The cabinets and walls were once white but had yellowed with age and cigarette smoke. The smell of stale cigarettes permeated the room.
The windows were all covered with blankets, blocking any chance of sunlight entering the depressing space. Torn linoleum with faded blue diamonds on it covered the tiny kitchen area. Gold shag carpet covered the living room floor and continued into a bedroom. Shaye stepped inside and walked to the center of the living room. She looked around, studying every square inch, waiting for some glimmer of recognition.
But none was forthcoming.
Finally, she moved from the living room and into the bedroom. The same yellowed walls carried into the bedroom and adjoining bathroom. A box spring and mattress sat in the corner of the room against the wall, a battered nightstand sitting beside it. Shaye walked over to the nightstand and opened the drawer, but all it contained was a hairband and a pair of socks.
She opened the closet and riffled through the tiny collection of threadbare clothing. A shoe box on the shelf contained undergarments, worn through in places. She left the closet and moved into the bathroom. The counter contained a brush and some barrettes. She pulled open the vanity drawer and stared in disgust at the needles and rubber band contained inside.
She slammed the drawer and walked back into the living room. She turned slowly around in a circle, growing more desperate by the second. Jackson, who’d silently stood to the side of her the entire time, frowned and reached out to touch her shoulder.
“Shaye?” he said.
That one word opened the floodgates.
“I don’t know this!” she said. “I don’t know any of this.”
“You might not have lived here. She might have moved here after…”
“After she lost track of me? Lost me like someone might lose their car keys? The difference being that people actually go looking for their car keys when they’re missing.”
Jackson stared at her, his dismay apparent. “I don’t know what to say.”
“There’s nothing to say. There’s nothing here for me. There never was.”
She walked out of the apartment without even a single glance back.
* * *
Hustle left the convenience store clutching the bag of art supplies. He’d checked at least twenty retailers in the French Quarter but hadn’t spotted a mask like the one the man who attacked him had been wearing. He’d started to purchase a similar one, but had decided he could do a better job drawing it than explaining the differences. It was almost dark by the time he left the store, and it would be dark before he got back to the hotel.
He considered getting a cab—he had plenty left from the money Shaye had given him, and she didn’t want him walking the streets after dark. But the thought of coughing up so much money for something as simple as a ride in a car was too much of a stretch for someone like Hustle, who usually only had enough money for his next meal, if that. If he hurried, he could make it back to Bywater in probably twenty minutes. His ankle wouldn’t be happy about it, but he could ice it and prop it up the rest of the night.
Mind made up, he dropped his skateboard onto the street and took off, weaving around the potholes, manhole covers, and cars, and ignoring the honking horns as he slipped through narrow spaces in between vehicles. He managed
to make it halfway before he had to stop to catch his breath. The sun was already sinking over the tops of the buildings. There wasn’t much daylight left.
He dropped his board and kicked off again, not wanting to admit, even to himself, that he was scared to be on the streets at night. Scared that whoever had attacked him the night before would return, and this time with help. The pain in his ankle ticked up a notch with every kick but he didn’t slow. When he reached the street the hotel was on, he stumbled off the board and bent over, trying to catch his breath.
The sunlight was almost completely gone and the sparsely placed streetlights were starting to flicker on. He picked up his board and headed for the hotel, limping heavily. He was thirty yards from the entrance to the hotel when he felt it—someone was watching him.
He took off for the hotel as fast as his ankle would allow, glancing back as he ran. A man burst out of the shadows and raced toward him. Hustle tried to pick up the pace, but his injured ankle wouldn’t support any increase in speed. He wasn’t going to make it.
The light in the lobby was on and Hustle yelled as loud as he could for the manager. He heard the swish of fabric moving behind him and knew the man was almost upon him. As the door to the hotel lobby flew open, the man grabbed Hustle’s shoulder and yanked him to the ground. Hustle held his skateboard up to block the man’s hand, which was descending on him with a needle.
When the gunshot rang out, Hustle clenched his eyes, certain it was over. He’d been mistaken. The man hadn’t been holding a needle. He’d been holding a gun. A second later, the man dropped on top of him and Hustle opened his eyes and shoved the body, panicking as he tried to escape the weight.
“Take my hand,” Saul said, and reached down.
Hustle clasped the hotel manager’s hand and struggled to his feet, then looked down at the man and saw blood seeping through the bullet hole in his chest. He looked over at Saul, who was still clutching the nine-millimeter in his hand.
“Thank you,” Hustle managed.