The Gates of Evangeline

by Hester Young

  Deacon hits a few buttons to make sure he hasn’t missed anything and then grabs a box of doughnuts off his desk. “Wan one?”

  I select something jelly-filled. “So how long have you been working here?” I ask through a mouthful.

  “Six yeeahs. Ah did security at da university in Lafayette, but ma daughta lives ova heah.”

  Six years isn’t long enough to know much about the family, let alone the case. This expedition has been a waste. I wander around the carriage house, glancing at flowerpots, a stepladder, some old cans of paint. Just put in a few minutes of chitchat, then you can get out of here.

  “You like Chicory?”

  “Ah lak it well nuff. Worked heah at da mill some yeeahs afta I finished high school, met ma wife heah.”

  “What mill did you work for?” From the corner of my eye, I watch one of the TV screens, where a fat, unidentifiable animal creeps around.

  “Da sugah mill,” Deacon says. “Deveau family owned dat, too, but she wasn’t makin’ nuff money and dey closed ’er down.”

  I don’t remember hearing about a sugar mill before. “When was that?”

  “Long time ago.” He chugs some coffee from a Styrofoam cup. “Late seventies, maybe? Neville neva did sell da land. Dem buildins still dere. Ah heah da teenajas go drinkin’ dere at nights, get chockay.”

  Before I can pursue this, my eyes fall on something large and wooden propped up behind a treadmill. The hairs on the back of my neck begin to rise. I take a few steps closer, hardly daring to breathe, and confirm my suspicion.

  A long, thin rowboat. One I think I’ve seen before.

  “How old’s that thing?” I point at it, trying to keep both my voice and my hand steady.

  “Dat dere?” Deacon shrugs. “Dunno. Been ’round since Ah rememba. You lookin’ to take ’er for a spin?”

  I shudder. “No. It—probably leaks.”

  “Nah,” he says, “she’s a good’un. Took ’er out in da swamp a couple yeeahs ago. Sometimes yuh wanna boat lak dat, small and quiet. Got right up close to a heron.”

  Can this really be the boat I dreamed about? The one I sat in with Gabriel? Instinctively, I run my hand over the wooden side, follow the contours of the boat with my fingertips. I feel a faint crackling sensation, a charge that spreads to the palm of my hand. He’s going to show me, I think. Somehow he’s going to show me. And he does.

  I’m pushing the boat into the water. Trying to hold it steady.

  I’m peering over the side. Searching.

  Water. Murky. So cold.

  Panic.

  I withdraw my hand quickly and glance back at Deacon, afraid that my face will betray my shock. He’s adjusting one of the cameras, oblivious. I have to talk to Detective Minot, have to tell him what I’ve found.

  This boat. This exact boat, in that swampy area by the dock. And the brown-eyed boy with dark hair and a chipped tooth. Jo-Jo. Gabriel Joseph Deveau. I can feel this object, this place, this person all linked together, a blazing triangle in my mind. And the evil. I can feel the evil, calculated and predatory, seizing me in the guts.

  “I want to go home now,” I tell Deacon, and then I throw up.

  • • •

  I REFRAIN FROM CALLING Detective Minot until six a.m. He sounds so alert when he answers, I wonder why I bothered waiting.

  “Charlotte! I’ve been thinking about you. I had a big break yesterday.” He’s speaking so fast I can barely understand him. “Now, you can’t use this in the book, you can’t breathe a word of it, but—”

  “A break? What kind of break?”

  “A break in the case!” He’s practically shouting. “This could be big. It is big. It’s major.”

  “Remy, what happened?” He sounds like an overexcited five-year-old.

  “I spoke to Rob Schaffer yesterday, one of the lead FBI agents involved in Gabriel’s kidnapping.”

  “Okay . . .” The name is familiar. Agent Schaffer was quoted in some articles I’ve read about the case.

  “He’s in his seventies now. Wife is dead, no kids, lives on an oxygen tank.”

  I sink down into my mattress, hands jittery with anticipation. “Let me guess. Schaffer suddenly felt the need to confess his sins?”

  “He didn’t seek me out. I don’t think he had a guilty conscience. He just . . . didn’t care enough to lie anymore.”

  I’m getting impatient. “So what did he tell you, exactly?”

  “The alibis. I’ve been telling you all along I thought Neville paid some people off, haven’t I?” He breathes a long sigh of satisfaction. “Well, Schaffer was one of them. He fabricated a witness. Neville paid him twenty-five thousand dollars.”

  Suddenly the exhaustion of the last twenty-four hours I’ve spent awake evaporates. “Jesus. He just . . . told you this? Over the phone?”

  “He lives near Baton Rouge. I went to see him yesterday.”

  I’m oddly hurt that Detective Minot didn’t invite me along. We were just hashing things out together on Wednesday—he could’ve asked. And I thought I did a pretty good job with Danelle, all things considered. But of course a retired FBI agent would respond better to Detective Minot than to me. I remind myself that I have no real official role in this investigation.

  “Wow,” I say. “They faked a witness? That is big. Was it the guy who delivered aspirin to Neville and Hettie in their hotel? Because then their alibis—”

  “No, the room service guy is a real person,” Detective Minot clarifies. “I’ve got his Social. They could’ve paid him off, too, I don’t know. But he exists. So far Neville and Hettie are still in the clear.”

  “Then who are we—”

  “Andre.” Detective Minot pronounces the name with relish. “Agent Schaffer was covering for Andre.”

  Maybe it’s because I just met Andre and liked him or maybe some deeper intuition is at work, but I can’t bring myself to believe that Andre killed his little brother. Deceptive, sure. An outright liar? Maybe. But a pedophile and a child killer? No.

  If I can trust the sensations I experienced by the dock, then sexual abuse played a part in Gabriel’s disappearance. What Danelle said sticks with me. Andre didn’t like boys; he liked men. Handsome broody men of about thirty, to be precise. Crushing over Sean Lauchlin and sneaking around with Jules are pretty normal behaviors for a gay man, a far cry from molesting one’s two-year-old sibling. And if I’m wrong about the sexual-abuse angle? Andre makes even less sense. He didn’t need a million dollars of ransom money, not with the bottomless financial support his parents offered. If Detective Minot is going to sell me on Andre as a suspect, I need something more compelling to go on.

  “So Neville paid Schaffer off,” I say. “Does that really prove that Andre is guilty?”

  “That’s a lot of money to shell out if you think your kid is innocent,” Detective Minot contends. “Anyway, I didn’t tell you Schaffer’s explanation. Supposedly, Andre’s spent-the-night-with-a-friend story wasn’t far from the truth. He says Andre was with a woman that night. A prostitute. That’s why Neville wanted to hush it up.”

  “How would Schaffer know who Andre was with?” I demand.

  “Well, that’s the story Andre told him, at any rate. That he bailed on the twins’ birthday party so he could have a night with a hooker. And Schaffer bought it. He thought he was doing the kid a favor, saving him from embarrassment. He figured if it was a prostitute, they’d have trouble locating the woman for questioning anyway. So he made up a ‘friend’ to corroborate Andre’s whereabouts.”

  “Maybe Andre was with a prostitute that night,” I say. “Why are you skeptical?”

  “You told me he doesn’t even like women.”

  “He was only eighteen!” It irritates me that Andre’s sexuality is being used against him this way. “Maybe he was trying to figure things out, act straight, I don’t know.
”

  “I thought you’d be a little more excited.” I can tell from Detective Minot’s tone that he’s starting to agree with me. “I thought we had something . . .”

  “Maybe we do.” I tell him about the boat I saw in the carriage house, how certain I am that it’s connected to Gabriel.

  He mulls it over. “The boat’s been sitting there for thirty years?”

  “No, it’s still a working boat.”

  “So even if we found any physical evidence, which is doubtful, we couldn’t prove when or how it got there.” Detective Minot lets out a long sigh. “Damn. All these dead ends.”

  I feign optimism. “Well, you’ve established that Neville could buy off law enforcement. I still say you should work on that room service guy and see if his story about the aspirin changes any.”

  “Maybe we’re overly focused on the parents. Maybe I need to . . . look at the hired help again.” He sounds like he’s given up.

  Inwardly I curse myself for being so quick to tear apart his theory. I try to pull something from the ashes. “Whoever took Gabriel out on that boat had to have access to the carriage house, right? And familiarity with its contents. That might narrow it down.”

  “Assuming the boat was stored there in 1982.”

  “Let’s assume it was.” I press forward. “Just a hunch, but I don’t think a member of the family would’ve used that rowboat. Not in the dark. So let’s look at former employees whose jobs centered around the carriage house. See if we can find someone who dealt with boats, someone who knew the swamps. Groundskeepers, a handyman, whoever.” I don’t like the idea, but Noah’s grandfather would most certainly have had access to both that boat and, given his wife’s position, Gabriel. “Maybe we should focus more on Jack Lauchlin.”

  “Okay. Fine.” Detective Minot still reeks of defeat.

  “Hey, don’t let this get you down. We’re close. I really feel we’re close.”

  “That’s what’s driving me crazy,” he says. “I feel like we’ve got all the pieces. We’re just putting them together wrong.”

  21.

  Thank goodness Rae is coming tonight. Amidst all these dead ends, our trip to New Orleans is a bright spot on my horizon. Perhaps a new city and an old friend will get me in a better headspace.

  Rain moves in late morning and lingers. Noah and I lounge around his drafty cottage all afternoon, indulging our inner sloths. We’re eating grilled cheese and tomato soup when Rae calls from JFK airport to let me know her flight’s showing on time. Good news that goes bad within seconds, as I realize we have widely divergent views on our visit.

  “I booked a hotel about five miles out of Chicory,” Rae informs me, “so I figure we’ll get breakfast tomorrow and then you can give me the grand tour of Evangeline.”

  “Chicory? I thought we were going to New Orleans.”

  She dismisses our previous plans with maddening carelessness. “I’ve been to New Orleans a hundred times. You’ve gotta show me the real Louisiana. Seriously, Charlie, I’m psyched to see this house.”

  It requires incredible restraint to keep from snapping at her. “I just got a lecture from the estate manager this week about not bringing my personal acquaintances on the grounds. If you’d asked me, I would’ve told you—”

  Noah, who has been following my end of the conversation, intervenes. “I can get her in,” he offers.

  I can just picture Rae’s ears perking up at the sound of a male voice. “Who’s that?” she wants to know. “Is someone with you?”

  I scramble for an innocuous answer. I haven’t told her about Noah yet, and I’m not about to do it with him sitting right here at the table. “The landscaper,” I say.

  “Listen,” Noah tells me, loud enough that Rae can hear, “if your friend wants to visit, I’ll talk to security, tell them she works for me.”

  Rae cheers. “Woo-hoo! See, I knew you had connections.”

  I glare at Noah. “I thought you were leaving for Texas tomorrow morning. You said you had business stuff to catch up on.”

  “I’ll leave a little later,” he says. “No problem.”

  “Perfect! This is working out!” Rae chirps.

  Before I can protest, the PA system begins blaring in the airport. “Looks like we’re boarding,” she announces. “See you tomorrow, hon!”

  I scowl at my phone and then at Noah. He slurps a spoonful of tomato soup, and I’m not sure if he fails to see my annoyance or is choosing to ignore it. “Cool,” he says. “I get to meet your friend.”

  I pick apart my sandwich, still grumpy. “Maybe I don’t want you to meet her.”

  “Why?” he asks. “I’d like to meet one of your friends.”

  “Rae’s nosy. She’s going to ask a lot of questions about you.”

  “So?”

  “So I don’t know what to tell her.” I wasn’t intending to launch a State of Our Relationship discussion, but that seems to be where we’re headed.

  “Tell her I’m great in bed,” Noah says with a grin, deftly avoiding the issue.

  “That’s actually more than she needs to know.”

  “But true, right?” His confidence has come a long way from that first morning when he was so worried about his performance. I guess I’ve given him enough positive reinforcement at this point.

  “Yes.” I roll my eyes. “You rock my world.”

  He smiles and gulps down the last of his soup. “How ’bout you tell her the truth?”

  “Which is?”

  “You like me, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re happy, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m happy, too.” Noah leans over and nuzzles my neck. I figure we’re done talking, and that’s fine by me. His breath, his lips, the feeling of his teeth on my ear—they give me goose bumps. The good kind.

  He gives my earlobe one final kiss and then settles back in his chair. “You know, I should probably ask, seein’ as Carmen and I never worked this one out.” His tone is so casual, I’m expecting a throwaway, not the ridiculously monumental question he lays on me. “Where do you stand on the whole kids thing?” From the way he’s slung back in his chair polishing off his third sandwich, you’d think the issue was no big deal.

  I want to shake him. I want to tell him that children are, in fact, a very big deal. That my child was a big deal.

  I know what I’m supposed to say. He told me the night we met that he and his wife of ten years divorced because he changed his mind about having children. If I want to take our relationship to the next level, all I have to do is say, Kids? I don’t want kids. Which is true. I have no love left to lavish on some small, fragile person who could be here one day and then, without warning, gone the next.

  But Keegan matters. Losing Keegan matters. My four years as his mother will define me, at least in part, for the rest of my life, and Noah will never understand.

  “Looks like I threw you off a bit there,” he observes. “Sorry. I’m gettin’ ahead a myself.”

  “Way ahead.” I fold my arms, not allowing myself to cry. I can’t explain about my son. Won’t even try. “At this stage, Noah, maybe let’s talk about our plans for the weekend, not the rest of our lives. We’re only three weeks in.”

  He calculates quickly on his fingers. “Damn, you’re right. Feels longer.”

  “Well, it’s not. It’s three weeks.” I don’t know why I’m getting snippy with him. I dated Eric about a month before deciding I wanted to marry him, and we discussed having children the second date. It’s not the speed Noah’s moving at but the territory he’s trying to cover. “I’m going back to my place for a bit.” I’m already moving toward the door. “I should wrap up a chapter before I see Rae tomorrow.”

  Noah furrows his brow. “You okay? Didn’t mean to freak you out.”

  “I’m fine.” My han
d is on the doorknob.

  “You want me to come by later?”

  What began as a drizzle has now turned to a full-fledged downpour. Still, the rain remains more appealing than hanging around Noah’s apartment while I’m on the brink of a breakdown. “I’ll call you,” I promise before sprinting off.

  But I don’t.

  • • •

  I MEET RAE at a Waffle House (her guilty vacation pleasure) the next morning and we exchange all the customary hugs and greetings. Rae’s a good-looking woman anywhere, but the suede jacket, leather boots, and perfectly coiffed curls attract more than the average amount of attention in a southern Louisiana Waffle House. From the looks of more than one patron, waffles aren’t the only mouthwatering items in the restaurant today.

  “A month here, and you already look better,” Rae tells me, ignoring the leers. “Less scary skinny. You came to the right state to fatten up.”

  I slide into one of the booths. “How’s Zoey?”

  “She misses you. Asks about you all the time.”

  Given how long I’ve known Zoey, my sudden absence from her life feels inexcusable. I should’ve called. At least sent a postcard. Before I can apologize, though, Rae drops the question she’s doubtless been dying to ask since we talked yesterday.

  “So who’s this landscaper guy?” Really, the woman should work for the National Enquirer or TMZ. She has an uncanny ability to sniff out a story.

  I’m a terrible liar, but I do my best to play it off. “You mean Noah? He’s doing work at Evangeline.”

  “Is he cute?”

  I deliberately misinterpret her. “This is Louisiana, not Vegas. You’re married, remember?”

  “Yes, happily and boringly married.” She laughs. “I’ve gotta live vicariously. So is he cute or is he, like, a hundred years old?”