The Gates of Evangeline

by Hester Young

  “I don’t know.” I trail behind him, the sensation of grimy fingers becoming unbearable. I push up my sleeve, half convinced I’ll find something unpleasant coating my skin. Nothing. Just the hairs of my arm standing on end.

  “Is this the place you dreamed about?”

  “Not exactly. But Gabriel’s been here.”

  Detective Minot studies me with cool blue eyes. “How do you know?”

  “I just . . . feel it . . .” I want to leave. Right now. I want this disgusting place to stop touching me. “Actually, this was a mistake. Can we go?”

  As I turn back toward the car, I swear I feel someone grab at my hip.

  Detective Minot watches me from the dock, much too far to have touched me. “You okay?”

  The short answer is no. “Something bad happened here.” My voice is shaky.

  Detective Minot glances at the boat launch and then out at the murky water. I don’t wait around for him. I hurry back to the car and shut myself inside. Wrap my arms around my chest. Fight back a wave of nausea.

  He gives me a couple minutes to compose myself, getting the lay of the land before he joins me. “Want me to drive?”

  I shake my head. “I’m all right.” But I don’t start the car. I want to make sure all the Gabriel feelings are gone, that it’s just me now.

  “Did you . . . see something?”

  If only it were that simple, Gabriel speaking to me in pictures. But it’s not. “He’s making me feel it like he did.” I’m almost whispering. “It happened the last time I came to this place, too.” I close my eyes, remembering the headache I got, that seasick feeling, my inability to breathe. “I think the guy brought him here. He hit Gabriel on the head, then took him out on a boat. The guy threw him in the water, but Gabriel wasn’t dead, not then. I think he drowned.”

  Detective Minot’s eyes widen. “Jesus.” It’s more of a prayer than a curse. He holds his head and massages his temples. “Okay. And you’re sure they left from this boat launch?”

  “Yeah. They left from here. And one other thing.” There’s only one explanation for the way I felt here, the sense of violation, the unseen hands. “We’re definitely dealing with sexual abuse. This guy was a frigging pervert.” I brush away a few tears, hoping Detective Minot doesn’t notice.

  A blood vessel bursting in the brain of a four-year-old should be the worst thing that could happen, the absolute worst. But it’s not.

  • • •

  AFTER THE EXPERIENCE at the boat launch, I’m no longer eager to explore the upstairs of Evangeline. Who knows what I’ll feel when I step inside that child’s bedroom? Detective Minot sees the shift in my mood and gives me a chance to bow out, but I refuse. Gabriel has waited long enough.

  The time is right. I wouldn’t go roaming through the house on my own, but with a cop at my side, I feel bold. And Detective Minot would never barge into the Deveau home without an invite, but I’ve provided him with one, sort of. It’s Sunday. No pesky twins, Jules is gone, and Hettie hasn’t exactly been up and at ’em lately. There’s no one to get in our way.

  “So . . . have you seen his room before?” I ask as we catch our first glimpse of Evangeline through the trees. “I haven’t been in yet.”

  “Me neither,” he replies, “just seen photographs and diagrams in the case files. Hettie wasn’t exactly cooperative when I approached her.”

  I stop at the gate to let the guard get a look at Detective Minot. “This is Remy Minot,” I say. “He’s visiting me today.”

  It’s one of the young guards. “I’ll have to log it. You got ID?”

  I feel kind of cool when the gate opens, like a girl who just got her big brother into an exclusive club. Then, in the staff parking area, I spot an unfamiliar red SUV with Texas plates that read HUNNY B. Really, Noah? She has cutesy misspelled vanity plates? Noah and his designer are nowhere in sight, so I do my best to focus on the task at hand.

  “Let’s start with the exterior,” Detective Minot suggests, bringing me back. I didn’t realize before how badly he wanted to get onto the property, how frustrated he was by Hettie’s stonewalling. Now that he’s here, he doesn’t waste a minute. “The original investigators believed that the kidnapper walked right into the home,” he tells me, heading toward the rear of the house, “but I’d still like to see the windows.”

  I scramble to keep up with him. “I thought the windows were locked. You don’t really think the guy climbed in a second-story window and then hauled Gabriel out with him, do you?”

  “No,” he concedes, “but if a window was the point of entry and exit, it would explain how Gabriel’s door was still locked the next morning, and how the adjoining door to his parents’ room was still latched from both sides. The only other explanation is someone with a key to Gabriel’s bedroom.”

  We’re standing by the fountain at the back end of Evangeline. Ordinarily the stone cherub centerpiece would joyfully spew water from his lips, but the fountain has been turned off for winter. Now the cherub stands on one foot, face tilted upward and mouth agape as if in shock.

  “Is that the ballroom?” Detective Minot points to the two sets of French doors.

  “Yeah,” I tell him. “They don’t use it much anymore.”

  He studies the second floor and its balcony. “So that’s the master bedroom where Neville and Hettie slept.” He draws a line with his finger. “And Gabriel’s room adjoined theirs off to the left.”

  We turn the corner of the house and inspect the upper level. “Right there.” He points. “Those windows would’ve been Gabriel’s.”

  Assuming there haven’t been major changes to the house in the last thirty years, I have to agree with the original investigators. There’s no obvious access through the windows. The balcony doesn’t extend nearly far enough to reach them, and there aren’t any trees or overhangs to help someone get inside.

  “Maybe you could make it with a ladder,” I say, “but the windows would have to be open, and it would be hard to go down with a toddler.” That was what Bruno Hauptmann attempted when he kidnapped the Lindbergh baby—and his ladder broke.

  “There was never any sign of a ladder,” Detective Minot muses. “And the windows were locked, at least by the time police showed up.”

  “And then there’s the dog,” I remind him.

  “Yeah. Someone from the inside had to be involved, at least as an accomplice.” He sighs. “I sure wish we coulda talked to that nanny. See if her story stayed consistent.”

  I feel an irrational surge of anger at the whole Lauchlin family. Maddie and Jack for dying. Sean for disappearing. And Noah for being too young to be useful. Thinking of the Lauchlins does prompt a question, though. “Did anyone ever look at Maddie’s son as a suspect? Sean Lauchlin?”

  We’re making our way to the front of the house, but the mention of Sean’s name stops Detective Minot in his tracks. “How’d he turn up on your radar?”

  “Brigitte mentioned him last week.” I find his reaction more interesting than my question. “I take it investigators had an eye on him?”

  Detective Minot glances around, despite the fact that there is absolutely no one here. “This isn’t the place to discuss it,” he says. “Let’s check out the room first and get outta here.”

  I resolve to grill him later. We enter the house and hurry up the staircase, its thick carpeting absorbing the sounds of our footsteps. Strands of daylight make the second-floor hallway much less sinister today, but my heart is banging at my rib cage anyway. Will I have to feel every horrible thing that happened to that poor child? Detective Minot stops at a door on the right and gestures for me to enter first.

  I put a hand on the knob and recoil sharply when a door opens behind us. I whirl around and see a hefty black woman helping Hettie with a walker.

  “Hey there,” the nurse greets us cheerily. “I was just gonna take Miss Hett
ie out to the garden for a bit a fresh air. Y’all comin’ by for a visit?”

  I bank on the old woman’s dementia and run with it. “We were, but we can wait,” I say. “You two take advantage of the day while it’s not raining.”

  Hettie examines us both with intelligent eyes. She looks better than she did the last time I saw her. Still thin, but more alert. Not exactly a good thing at this particular moment. Beside me, Detective Minot rubs his palms together and stares at the floor. If she recognizes him, we could be in trouble.

  “Come with us to the garden,” the nurse suggests.

  I rack my brain for plausible excuses. “No, I have allergies. We’ll come back.”

  The nurse is too polite to point out that it’s January, hardly allergy season. She shrugs. “That suit ya, Miss Hettie?”

  Hettie moves slowly, peering at me like a turtle. “It’s kind of you to drop by again,” she says. “I trust your book is going well.”

  I freeze. She knows. She knows everything.

  But her face still says benevolent hostess, and there’s no sign she remembers Detective Minot whatsoever. “Has Jules been telling you all about the history of the house?” she asks, and I realize that she remembers me as the plantation-home writer. I can make this work.

  “He’s told me some,” I say, “but I was hoping to chat with you, too. And do you mind if I explore the house? I’d love to see the design choices you’ve made, but I don’t want to intrude.”

  “We wouldn’t have invited you if it were any intrusion. You treat Evangeline as your home.” She grips the handles of her walker, struggling to hold herself up. “I told Jules he ought to put you and Gabriel in the house, but he thought you two’d prefer a little privacy, even if those cottages are small.”

  Oh. My. Hettie’s brain is completely scrambled.

  The nurse eventually convinces her they’d better continue on to the garden, and Detective Minot helps her safely down the stairs.

  He returns shaking his head in amazement. “I don’t get it. She didn’t even ask who I was. And what was that about Gabriel?”

  The last thing I’m going to do is tell him about Noah. If he finds out I’ve been sleeping with the son of Sean Lauchlin, I’ll never get the info I want. “Hettie’s been a little confused lately,” I say. “But you heard her. She gave us the run of the house.” So what if that permission was predicated on her belief that I’m a potential daughter-in-law? Before I can reconsider, I open the door to Gabriel’s room and step inside.

  • • •

  I DIDN’T REALIZE IT BEFORE, but all this time I’ve been picturing his room a certain way. Blue walls, green trim. A Sesame Street bedspread. A big comfy armchair in the corner where he could sit in his mother’s lap and read bedtime stories. Somehow, in my mind, Gabriel’s room was Keegan’s.

  It’s a little unsettling to walk into a space so different from what I imagined. Gabriel’s room looks nothing like my son’s, or any other child’s. Above the white chair-rail molding, the walls are sage green and decorated with antique prints of rosemary, wild chives, and chicory. The Deveau family has transformed the space into a guest room.

  What did you want them to do? Leave it forever, like some creepy mausoleum? They had to let go, Charlie. And sooner or later, so will you.

  I walk around the room opening drawers, touching blankets and furniture, picking up objects: a small clock, a lace cloth, a glass of potpourri. I search for some lingering hint of Gabriel, but there’s nothing. I approach the windows at the far side of the room, stand in the waning light, and wait. Part of me has already given up. I didn’t have to try to feel something at the boat launch. It just happened. Maybe Gabriel has communicated with me enough for one day.

  My last hope is the door that adjoins the master bedroom. Thirty years ago, investigators found it still latched from the inside; today, the small metal latch has been replaced by a sizable dead bolt. I twist back the dead bolt and turn the doorknob, expecting to see the room that Neville and Hettie once shared on the other side. Instead, I find a huge, sparkling bathroom.

  “They remodeled.” I have to admit defeat now.

  Detective Minot takes a few tentative steps toward me. “Did you get anything? Any . . . messages?”

  “No.”

  “Is it because they changed the room around or . . . you think nothing significant occurred here?”

  I feel like a complete and utter failure. “I don’t know how it works. I’m sorry.”

  “We’ll try some other rooms. We’re here anyway.”

  We do a quick survey of the upstairs. With each new room, Detective Minot glances hopefully at me, and I shrug, unable to meet his eyes. At the end of our expedition, the only thing he’s gained is that self-consciousness you get from being around people with more money than you.

  “And I thought my house was pretty nice,” he jokes.

  I can sympathize. When I first began writing for Sophisticate, I felt that way all the time: intimidated by the high-end events I had to attend, both repelled by and drawn to my readers’ lavish lifestyles. Gradually, I came to appreciate my position as a writer. I could be an observer, a know-it-all, the Woman with the Answers who was never really one of them. And once I had Keegan, I didn’t waste time pining over designer clothes or gourmet restaurants anyway.

  Detective Minot, however, hasn’t yet reconciled himself to being around artwork worth more than his annual salary. He shifts around, trying to conceal his discomfort.

  “Let’s go. I’ll take you home,” I say.

  We’ve been driving all of two minutes when I broach the issue I’m really curious about. “So. Sean Lauchlin. What’s the deal?”

  Detective Minot sighs, and I can tell he was hoping I’d forget. “That information is part of a confidential investigation. I can’t get into it.”

  I don’t give up that easily. “I’m trying to help you.”

  “I know.” He pulls out his cell phone and begins texting someone. Dr. Pinaro, I imagine. “All I can say is nothing we currently know about Sean suggests that he’s responsible for Gabriel’s disappearance.”

  “Then why was he a person of interest?” I persist.

  “During the original investigation, some . . . irregularities were discovered.” He doesn’t look up from his phone.

  “Damn it, Remy, just tell me what you know.” I pull the car over to a shoulder of muddy road so we can have this out. “I’m not gonna put it in my stupid book, if that’s what you’re afraid of. The book was just an excuse to get here, don’t you understand? I’m doing this for the same reasons you are.”

  “It’s not the same,” he tells me, not remotely rattled. But of course, that’s part of being a cop. Staying in control, even when crazy New Yorkers drive you off the road and yell at you. “I appreciate that you want to help, but Gabriel isn’t your job.”

  “Oh, please. This isn’t just about your job.” An old pickup speeds by us, the driver glancing over to make sure we don’t need assistance. “It bothers you on a personal level, doesn’t it? That little boy vanishing, not even a proper burial. It bothers me, too. You know why?” I realize the answer only as I speak it. “Because it’s not like leukemia or a brain aneurysm. It wasn’t just random, shitty luck. Somebody is responsible. Somebody should be punished.”

  Detective Minot’s voice is still measured, toneless, but his jaw is tighter. “And that’s what I’m trying to do.”

  “Gabriel came to me. Not you.” I let that sit with him a moment before whispering the thing that scares us both. “What if I’m the only one who can help you?”

  He’s silent for a long time. He wants to let me in. He’s tired of doing it alone. “I could be fired.”

  “I won’t repeat a word you tell me. I swear.”

  “Fine. Just . . . fine. What does it matter anyway? It’s a job, not a life.” He wipes away the fo
g forming on my windshield with his fist and begins. “In June 1982, Sergeant Sean Lauchlin received an honorable discharge after serving six years in the army.”

  “I thought he went AWOL.” That was the story Noah told me, although his grandparents could’ve lied to him.

  “No, he completed his service,” Detective Minot says. “And then he went home to visit his parents, Maddie and Jack.”

  I nod. That fits with what Brigitte told me.

  “According to his parents, the three of them had a falling-out about some woman Sean was involved with, and then he left. He told them he was heading for Mexico. On June twenty-fourth, he emptied his bank account. As far as we know, that’s the last anyone saw or heard of him.”

  “Okay . . .” I fail to understand all the buildup. “He took his money and went to Mexico to start a new life with his lady. What’s the big deal?”

  “The big deal is the money, Charlotte.” Detective Minot runs a finger over his clean-shaven chin. “He had almost half a million dollars in that account.”

  16.

  Half a million dollars,” I repeat. It’s not an unthinkable sum even in 1982, but it’s a hell of a lot to have stashed away for a handful of years in the military. “How’d Sean get it?”

  “Unclear. The account was opened in April of 1979 with an initial deposit of forty thousand. Every month after that, a twelve-thousand-dollar deposit was made from an offshore account. By the time he withdrew the money, he had four hundred ninety-six thousand dollars.”

  My eyes widen. “Does the military know? He could’ve been—”

  “Selling information? The FBI was all over that. As far as I know, the US government has never linked him to any crimes against the state. Apparently his work in the army didn’t have him handling particularly sensitive material anyway.”

  “Do you think there’s any connection to Gabriel?” Maybe I’m missing the obvious, but I don’t see it. “I mean, that account was created before Gabriel was even born, right?”