Broken Bayou

by Rhonda R. Dennis

  “Yep. One or two good solid swats to the butt. Hurt my pride more than my ass. What Father Donnelly said about him is true. He’s often brusque, but all in all he’s a good man. The one thing I fear the most is letting him down.”

  His sentiment is so heartfelt that my breath catches in my chest. “I’m sure he’s very proud of you, and there’s no chance you could ever let him down.”

  Cal shrugs it off. The wooden doors open and Joel sets two steaming bowls of seafood gumbo, two large saucers of potato salad, and a basket of French bread before us. “Y’all enjoy,” he says before disappearing through the doors once again.

  I place my hand on top of Cal’s. “Thank you for bringing me here. I needed this—a breather.”

  Cal smiles. I draw my hand back to dig into the food before me, and I easily finish every last bit of it.

  “I’m going to get fat living here,” I say, tempted to unbutton my jeans.

  “We can work those calories off later,” Cal replies, and I blush at the suggestion. Once he pays the bill and bids his farewells to Miss Nelly and Joel, we drive deeper into Frenchman’s Cove. It only takes a few minutes to get to Cal’s dad’s house, a very simple structure tucked in a clearing at the end of a windy shell road that cuts through masses of thick foliage.

  “Wow, it’s nice and isolated out here,” I remark.

  “Yeah, Dad likes it because he’s pretty much off the grid. You know, spiteful criminals, deranged lunatics… He didn’t really need to worry about them finding us way out here. I guess I liked it, too. For me it was like growing up at a wilderness retreat.”

  “Ah, Huck Finn.” I playfully pinch his cheek.

  He points towards the bank at the rear of the property. “That’s the very dock I’d take off from. I had my own boat and everything.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Nine? Ten?”

  “Oh, my goodness! You had your own boat at ten years old?”

  “Doesn’t every kid?” he asks with a teasing smile. “Come on. Time to meet Dad.” He takes my hand as we climb the steps leading to the front door. Cal pounds on it, and though it takes a while, it finally opens.

  “Cal, I wasn’t expecting you today. Come on in, son.” The door widens and we’re led inside. The living room is as understated as the exterior. A simple sofa, a severely worn recliner, and a newspaper covered coffee table are the main furnishings. Aside from that, a desk butts up against a wall. A small flat screen TV is perched atop it, as is an antiquated PC with a fat monitor. Between the two is an 8x10 photo of a much younger Mr. Gage proudly wearing a law enforcement uniform while posing in front of an American flag. School photos of Cal, which are set in older, tarnished metal frames, litter the walls.

  Mr. Gage appears to be a no-nonsense, laid back kind of guy, as evidenced by the green sweat suit and white socks he dons. He chomps on a cigar stub, and rolls it to the opposite side of his mouth when he asks, “Who’s this?”

  “Dad, this is Cheyenne. Cheyenne, this is my dad, Felton Gage.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Gage.”

  “Felton,” he rumbles.

  “Felton,” I repeat.

  “You’ve been spending a lot of time with my boy lately, haven’t you?”

  I’m not quite sure if it’s a statement or a question, but I go with question. “Yes, sir. I suppose I have.”

  “Good. He ain’t been coming around here bugging me as much.”

  Knowing that Cal has talked about me with his dad makes me smile; however, Cal shifts uncomfortably on the sofa. “Dad, I was wondering if you could help us with something. It’s about one of the old cases you worked—the Nuit Rouge murders.”

  Felton’s cigar stub shifts back to the other side of his mouth. “What about it?”

  “Let me start with a hypothetical,” Cal suggests. Felton shrugs. “Let’s say someone who has never been inside Azalea Downs shows up there and instantly knows the floor plan and details about the murders. How do you suppose he or she would know such things?”

  “I’d suppose it was one of those conspiracy theorists running around out there drudging up drama where none exists anymore. The case was solved, the guilty are gone, and even so, you have these fools running around trying to make something where there is nothing.”

  “But what if it wasn’t someone who studied all of that?”

  He thinks for a while. “Maybe the person saw a write up or something? I know there are some people out there who reported on it, wrote about it, studied it and such.”

  Cal looks in my direction, and I give him a shrug.

  “What’s going on here? Why are we bringing up something that happened over thirty years ago?” Felton asks.

  I speak up, “I’m from Oklahoma, born and raised. I’ve never been to Louisiana before I moved her; however, when we visited Azalea Downs, there was an incident.”

  “Incident? What kind of incident?” Felton asks. The expression on his face never changes.

  “I’m not exactly sure how to explain what happened, other than it was like I was seeing a rapid progression of photographs or like watching a movie of the carnage. I saw where the bodies were positioned, the blood, and it ended with a dark closet upstairs. After that, I came to, or whatever.”

  Felton gives me a hard stare. “Weird. Do you normally have an overactive imagination?”

  I’m stunned by his abruptness. “Uh, I, no.”

  “Tell me what you think you saw,” he demands with a skeptical tone.

  Somewhat reluctantly, I relay my visions of the grand ball room, the piano player who was shot in the head, as well as the slew of other victims. I tell him about the man and woman separated from the rest of the group in the parlor, going so far as to mention the dress and jewelry she wore. He sits back in his recliner and taps the cigar nub to his lower lip that is now stretched out by a scant smile.

  “Well, little lady, I can put your mind at ease right this very second. You didn’t see the crime scene,” he grumbles.

  “I didn’t? But it was so vivid. And the floorplan…”

  “All of the bodies were in one room, the ball room. I don’t recall anyone wearing a white dress that night, either. Granted, I can’t be sure unless I pore through the case file again, but the things you’ve described so far don’t match anything I recall from the scene.”

  “Really?” I ask. Part of me is relieved, but a larger part is confused. “So where did those images come from?”

  “You been watching a lot of movies or those criminal TV shows?” Felton asks.

  “No sir. I rarely watch… well, I have, but I don’t see how it would cause me to black out, experience those images, and such. Nightmares, I’d understand. This, I’m so confused,” I sigh heavily.

  “Has this ever happened before?” Felton prompts.

  “No.”

  “Have you had anything like it happen since? Do you get any vibes or images sitting in my house?” he asked in a somewhat patronizing fashion.

  I slowly look around, almost embarrassed by his tone. “No.”

  He sits back on the edge of his seat. “Then listen to me, and please take my advice. In the course of my life I’ve experienced so many mysterious occurrences that hearing just a few of them would make your head spin. Forget about it. Sometimes things just happen, and we don’t know the logical explanation. If it was happening all of the time, I’d say you might have something that needs to be looked into further. Being that the information is inaccurate, and it never happened to you before, just let it go.”

  “But the floor plan? How could I know that?”

  “Always with the questions and answers. You young people always gotta be in the know. Look, it’s simple. Them old houses, they’re all pretty much the same on the inside. Cal told me y’all went to visit with Milly not too long ago. Isn’t her floor plan similar?”

  “I suppose it’s sort of similar,” I concede.

  “And there you go,” he says, smacking the arm of
his recliner to drive the point home. “Case solved! Damn, I’m good. Still got it after all these years. Plus, there are pictures of the damned house all over the place. I could poll twenty people right now and I guarantee you at least fifteen have seen photos of Azalea Downs.”

  I’m still uncertain, but I jump at the explanation because continuing to delve into the unexplained is making my head hurt, not to mention I’m scared to get on the old man’s nerves. If this is his normal behavior, I’d hate to see him pissed off. “Thank you for your help, Felton. I feel better now.”

  “Good. Nine times out of ten, there’s a logical explanation. That other time, there’s something logical there, we just haven’t figured out what it is yet. Just shrug it off or you’ll run yourself mad. So, what you kids got planned for the rest of the day?”

  “We haven’t really discussed it,” Cal says, looking my way. I shrug.

  “How ‘bout we take a ride to the riverfront to see JuJune. He just opened the seafood market back up, and I’ll get some shrimp, oysters, and catfish to fry. He might even have some soft-shell crabs, too,” Felton says.

  “Dad, we’d like to, but we’re still stuffed from Miss Nelly’s. Rain check?”

  Felton nods. “Just as well. The Padre was over earlier. Brought me a care package from Widow Eastland.”

  “You need anything before we go, Dad? Did you remember to take your meds?”

  “Yes, I took my damn meds. I keep telling you I’m not an invalid. I’m fine. You two get on out of here, and come back next weekend with empty bellies, you hear?”

  Cal nods his head. “Okay, we’ll see you next weekend. Call me if you need anything before then.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Get going.”

  “It was nice to meet you, Felton. Thank you for the help and the advice.”

  “My pleasure, sweetheart. Glad you ain’t a looney tune. I was kinda worried about that for a while. See you next weekend.”

  I’m taken aback once again, but I manage to eke out, “Should I bring anything?”

  “Yes. An empty belly. I thought we’d been through this already,” he says, waving us out the door. “Go! Go!”

  Once we’ve been on the road a while, I prop my head against the car window and take in the sights all around me. Cal holds my hand, his thumb softly stroking the area between my thumb and forefinger. I decide to take Felton’s advice and try to not give the incident anymore thought. It was a fluke, and the chances of something like that happening again are slim to none. It’s time to move forward. The first thing that pops in my mind is how badly I want Cal to stay the night with me. A smile creeps across my face.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Cal requests.

  A devious smirk crosses my lips. “How about I show you what I’m thinking about?” I move my hand across the center console to rest on his thigh. He tenses immediately. As I slowly run it up his leg, he begins to push back against his seat.

  “Okay, I got it. Stop before you cause a wreck,” he warns. I laugh at his reaction, and take heed of his warning. I watch as the speedometer begins to creep upwards, and I’m happy to know that Cal has the same thought as me—let’s get home as fast as we can.

  Chapter Eight

  Trying to get back into the swing of things is harder than I thought it would be. The mysterious roses continue to appear, but the person leaving them has gotten more cautious about placing them. They are no longer around my apartment, but further away being placed on my car instead. One was tucked in a windshield wiper blade, one in a door handle, and another on the roof. Not sure what else to do, I penned a note asking to please be left alone.

  Instead of deterring my creepy admirer, it must’ve served as inspiration because now along with the flowers, I’m left messages. Well, not necessarily letters, but unsigned greeting cards, magazine cut outs, and most recently, a huge heart-shaped Mylar balloon tied to my side view mirror. My arms are loaded with papers and books when I notice it gently swaying in the breeze. Chucking my bundle onto the hood of the car, I use my house key to pop it before throwing it into the trash. Agnes’ silhouette darkens one of the upper windows, and a chill runs through my spine. I shake it off and start the commute to the SOU campus.

  The car behind me didn’t raise any red flags originally. It’s not until it parks a few spots away from mine when I stop for a cup of coffee that I take notice. While waiting for the cashier to ring up my purchase, I anxiously shift back and forth trying to remember how long the car has been following me, but then I shake it off. I’m being paranoid. No one is following me. No one is trying to get me. I have a secret admirer who is most likely a love-sick student. It’s not the first time that’s happened. Stay calm. Relax. You’re fine.

  The car is behind me again once I resume the commute. Now I’m starting to get very anxious. I suddenly take a right into a residential neighborhood that takes me away from the campus. The car follows. Huge knots form simultaneously in my throat and stomach. Reaching for my phone, I dial Cal.

  “Good morning, beautiful,” he says in a sultry voice.

  “Cal, someone is following me,” I blurt out with panic.

  “What? Go straight to the police station. Now.” His commands are laced with urgency.

  “I will if I can find my way back to one of the main roads. I tried to get rid of him by going into a residential neighborhood, but now I’m lost.”

  “What street are you on? What does this car look like? What does the person driving it look like?”

  “I’m on Greenbrush Street—the five hundred block. I’m going north. The car is dark blue with tinted windows, and I don’t know who’s driving it. Cal, I’m scared.”

  “Listen to me. Greenbush is going to intersect with Cypress Street. Take a right on Cypress, and it’ll put you back on the main highway.”

  “Okay,” I say, trying to hold as much of the panic as possible at bay. I find Cypress Street and take the right as Cal suggests. Fighting the urge to floor it, I glance in my rearview mirror. He’s still there, a few car lengths back. “Cal, I found a cop. He’s loading gear into his car. I’m going to pull into his driveway.”

  “Okay. Please be careful. Call me to let me know what’s going on.”

  “I will. I’ll call you back.” I hit the disconnect button as I swing into the officer’s driveway. He gives me a questioning look, but I don’t notice it for long. My eyes are on my rearview mirror and the dark blue car that cruises by slowly. Damn the tinted windows!

  I’m startled further by a rap at my window. The tall, lean officer has an on-guard stance while waiting for me to put down my window. He wears a dark brown uniform, his auburn hair is in a flat-top, and he has a self-assured air about him. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to intrude, but that car—the blue one—I think the driver was following me.”

  He looks down the street and has to squint to see the car because it’s so far away. Suddenly, I begin to doubt myself. Maybe the car wasn’t following me. Was it all coincidence?

  “Did the driver of the vehicle do anything aggressive like try to veer you off the road, display signs of road rage, make threats, or something along those lines?”

  “No, sir. The person simply followed me, staying a few car lengths back the majority of the time.”

  “What makes you believe the car was following you?”

  “When I stopped for coffee, the person waited in the parking lot until I came out and then got behind me again. When I turned into this residential area, the person turned, too.”

  The police officer looks at me with uncertainty. “Has this happened before?”

  “No, sir. This is the first time. Look, I didn’t know what else to do. I teach at the university, and I was on my way to work when I noticed the car…”

  “You did the right thing, but you won’t always have a member of law enforcement available on the route you’re taking. Call 911 next time so they can put someone on it immediately. I’m about to go on patrol, so I’ll keep an eye out for this blue c
ar. Can you give me any other description or identifying features of the vehicle? It was pretty far away when I saw it, so I couldn’t place the make or model.”

  “No, sir. I’m not good at identifying car brands, makes, or models. I know that the windows were tinted, and it wasn’t a brand new car. It was a larger sedan. Other than that, I’m sorry, I can’t think of anything else to help identify it.”

  He rubs his jaw. “Yeah, that doesn’t really give me much to go on. Look, here’s my card.” Velcro snaps as he pulls open the flap of his chest pocket. After fishing out a business card, he passes it through my window. “If you see it again, or if you feel you’re being followed, try to get a better description and call it in. The department’s emergency number is on the card, too.”

  “Thank you, officer,” I say.

  “Actually, it’s Major Collins. And you are?”

  “Cheyenne Douglas.” No doubt he’ll be running a background check later. I feel an overwhelming urge to ramble, but I work hard to contain it. He simply looks down at me with the same look he has had since the beginning—cautiously inquisitive.

  “I’ll tell you what, Cheyenne. I’ll follow you to the campus just to be sure this blue car doesn’t pop back up. If it’s legit, the person could be waiting at the end of the street for you. If he follows, I’ll pull him over. Do not stop. You keep going to work, and I’ll call you with the details afterwards. What department are you in?”

  “English,” I answer.

  He nods. “Let’s get you to work. You lead the way, and I’ll hang back a little. Even if you don’t see me, I promise I’m on top of things.”

  I nod, feeling somewhat relieved. “Thank you, Major Collins.”

  “No problem,” he says, backing away from my car so he can get into his cruiser. I leave first, and I don’t see him again until he pulls up behind me once I’m in my parking spot on campus. The strong desire to profusely apologize overwhelms me when I get out of my car.

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see him, and maybe I’m losing my mind. I don’t know. I’m so sorry I wasted your time, Major Collins…”