The Gates of Evangeline

by Hester Young

  It’s you, I think. He cut the motor when he heard YOU.

  We’re not far from the boat launch—he could’ve heard my car pull up. He’s probably been listening all along, listening to me struggle with the boat, listening to me curse as I tried to row. He’s waiting me out. He’s close.

  It’s just me and Mike.

  You will NOT be afraid, I tell myself. Look who he chose to prey upon. A three-year-old. A young mother. Mike Findley is no big, bad man—he’s completely chickenshit. But you, Charlie, you are not.

  The thick air gathers around me, warm and damp on my neck, like breath. I smell death, living matter decomposing in the turbid, stagnant water, and yet the swamp itself feels very much alive. Alive and watchful. Predatory. The quiet scares the hell out of me.

  “Mike Findley, you sonnuvabitch, I’m coming for you!” In this desolate landscape, my voice is both startling and small. Even if I found Mike, what could one woman in a wobbly rowboat really do? But it’s all I have left: strong words to camouflage my weakness. “I know what you’ve done, you sick bastard! I know what you’ve done!”

  Fear can clear your head, focus you, enable you to act decisively and intelligently. Or it can make you stupid. When I hear something near a cluster of moss-draped trees off to my right—a rustling, then scraping sounds—I know that fear has made Mike stupid. I know I have a chance. I row toward the sounds, heaving my body into each stroke until my muscles burn.

  There’s a splash, and even in the seconds before I hear the rumble of a motor starting, I know it’s Jonah. Jonah is in the water.

  I row. Through the gloomy, humid air. Past tree roots, swamp grass, and branches. I collide with a log and the rowboat bounces off to the side, costing me precious seconds as I fight to get back on course.

  From around the curve of trees, a boat zips out, engine roaring. The man at the helm turns to get a look at me, and in the seconds that our eyes lock, I forget to breathe. This is what evil looks like. A husky, pale-faced man with a shock of red hair. Jeans and an orange puffer vest. Not ugly, not handsome, not memorable in any way. A man you’d smile at politely in the grocery store and never think of again.

  This is what evil looks like, and he’s staring right at you.

  His hand moves down toward the throttle in a quick, jerky motion, accelerating. He’s going to hit you. He has speed on his side, and power. I can’t possibly escape.

  But I’m wrong. Instead of bearing down on me, the motorboat loops away, shoots deep into the belly of the swamps. Mike casts me a backward glance over his shoulder, and then he’s gone, a coward through and through.

  I let him flee. Don’t waste any time or headspace on him. Instead, my eyes trace his path backward, trying to pinpoint the area he came from. I have to get to Jonah.

  I row. Row, though my shoulder blades are on fire, my triceps leaden. Row, although I can’t see where I’m going. No sign of where Jonah went in. I’ve read plenty of pool safety brochures in my day, and I know how quickly a child can drown. And that’s in clear water without all this muck, not to mention gators. Time is not on my side.

  “Jonah!” I think I’m in approximately the right location. The water doesn’t look deep, but when I dip a paddle in, it doesn’t touch bottom. Deep enough to kill a three-year-old.

  My determination is rapidly giving way to panic. He has to be here. Has to be. But the branches, the leaves, the floating scum all conceal what lies beneath the surface.

  “Jonah!” I call again.

  Then, about twenty feet away, I spot something. A flash of white. His shirt.

  Without thinking, I’m in the water. Have to get to him. The water’s murky, and the cold shocks my system, but it’s the things that get to me. Strange shapes and textures brush against me as I swim toward that white beacon. Something rough claws my leg. Branch? Gator? I don’t stop to find out.

  Grab the shirt. Just grab the shirt.

  My hand closes around the sopping fabric, and I feel the weight of a small child’s body straining against me. Thank goodness I’m wearing the life jacket. I grope frantically for the rest of him. Leg, torso, fingers, hair. I yank his dark head to the surface. Air. He needs air.

  His eyes are closed, his body limp. I can’t do anything for him out here in the water, and even if I could get us both back in the boat somehow—unlikely—the bottom of the rowboat is curved, not flat. Too shaky, too unstable for me to attempt any rescue measures. We’ve got to make it back to the dock.

  I lean backward and let myself float. Slide my arms under his armpits and tilt him back against my chest, careful to keep his head out of the water. All I can think about as I start to swim are those first aid and CPR classes I took when Keegan was a baby. You’re so paranoid, Eric said. You always expect the worst. And he was right. I expected the worst, and I tried to prepare for it. I imagined my son choking, drowning, ingesting poisonous substances, and I learned the ways to save him. In the end, I got the worst: a disaster I did not anticipate, an outcome I could not have changed.

  But I can change this one. I can still change this.

  Swim. Keep Jonah’s face up. Don’t let him swallow more water.

  I can see the dock and the boat launch now, although still no sign of Water Patrol or the sheriff’s department. I swim. It’s no easier than paddling the rowboat but more instinctive. I try to ignore the unseen objects I’m scraping past, but adrenaline surges freshly through me each time my legs bump something large. God, I hope Andre was right when he said that gators are sluggish this time of year.

  Swim. You can make it. You’re not so far away. Keep swimming.

  Eventually, my feet touch the concrete bottom of the boat launch. I drag Jonah out of the water and lay him out on the dock, flat on his back, like my last vision of him. His eyes are still closed, his skin cold.

  “Jonah? Jonah, wake up!” I tap his shoulder, swamp water dripping from my face to his. “Cough, baby! Cough it up!”

  He doesn’t move. Only the water moves. Trickles from his hair, his clothes, his tiny cheeks. Pools around his body, staining the wooden slats of the dock. This is bad. Very, very bad. He’s unconscious and doesn’t seem to be breathing. No choice. I’ve got to do chest compressions. I peel up his T-shirt, my fingers fumbling with the wet fabric, and press my hand to the center of his scrawny chest.

  One two three four five . . .

  Thirty chest compressions delivered in rapid succession. I hope I didn’t break any of his ribs. Know that it might not matter if I did.

  I tilt his head back, trying to clear his airway. Am I doing this right? There’s no time to doubt myself. Brain damage can occur after just four minutes without oxygen, and it’s been much longer than four minutes. I scan for signs that he’s breathing. No rising chest. When I place a hand near his mouth and nose, no breath. I press my hands to his neck, attempting to check his circulation. My fingers are so frozen, so numb from my swim, I can’t feel anything. I grope his chest, searching for a heartbeat. Again, nothing.

  Please help me. I don’t know who it is I’m looking to, what force I think can intervene here. I just know that I can’t do this alone. Help me save this little boy. I can’t let him die. I won’t let him die.

  I pinch Jonah’s nose. Cover his mouth with mine. Administer a couple rescue breaths. His chest rises as I breathe air into his lungs, but he doesn’t resume breathing. I feel his neck for a pulse and get none.

  Chest compressions, again. Two more rescue breaths. Another round of compressions.

  What else can I do? This is all I have to give. My breath. My hands. My will to keep trying. Because this is someone’s little boy, somebody’s child, and I will not let Leeann suffer as I’ve suffered, I will not let a twenty-three-year-old girl, already so grossly betrayed, lose more than she has lost.

  I. Will. Not.

  The entirety of my being now lies in Jonah’s small r
ib cage rising at my breaths, his pale chest depressing and expanding beneath the flat of my hand. Over and over, I count. I press. I breathe. Over and over. And still, that boy lying on the dock doesn’t wake up.

  I don’t notice the cars pulling up, an airboat launching, a pair of EMTs rushing to my side. I only know they’re pulling me away from him. I start yelling. Nonsensically yelling, swatting at people, somehow convinced their expertise is not enough, that only I can bring this boy back to life.

  “You did all you could do,” Detective Minot tells me, and I wonder where he came from, why he seems to be restraining me. Or maybe that’s a blanket he’s trying to wrap around me. I guess I’m still wet. And very cold. “It’s out of your hands now, Charlotte. It’s out of your hands.”

  One of the EMTs covers Jonah’s nose and mouth with a plastic device, squeezing air through a bulb, while the other, a woman, performs chest compressions. They’re more efficient than I was, fifteen chest compressions for every two breaths, but they’re no more successful. Detective Minot tries to steer me away from the dock, but I won’t budge. If Jonah’s gone, I have to know.

  “We’re going to find Mike Findley,” Detective Minot says, as if that could make things better. “I promise you, we’ll find him. He’s not getting away with this one. He will spend the rest of his miserable life—”

  He stops. Stares. So do I. Because Jonah has begun to vomit.

  The medic kneeling by the boy’s chest reaches for his carotid. “We’ve got a pulse!”

  Minutes later, in a miracle that seems far greater than walking on water or multiplying fish and bread, Jonah Landry opens his eyes. He doesn’t sit up, just takes in the scene around him with a foggy, confused look. Swamp drool dribbles from his lower lip onto his chin. He blinks a few times, and then his dark, solemn gaze meets mine.

  “You came,” he says.

  I take a few steps toward him. “Jonah? Honey? Do you know who I am?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “You’re my angel.”

  30.

  How to explain this?

  I’m at the sheriff’s department, working on my official statement. After everything that’s happened, I just want to catch my breath, let it sink in that I’ve found Jo-Jo, that he’s alive. The sheriff’s department has its own ideas, however, and here I am, almost eight o’clock now, sitting in a cold, white room with paper, a pen, and a can of Sprite. I’m supposed to write down everything I witnessed this evening, recall the events while they’re still fresh in my mind.

  It’s not the statement I’m struggling with, but the questions that will inevitably follow. Why did I suspect Mike? How did I know where to go? It came to me in a dream seems an inadequate explanation, although people in these parts might be better prepared to accept that than I am. They believe in angels. They believe in the helping hand of God.

  As I piece together a terse account of spotting Mike in the boat, I can’t stop thinking of Jonah and Leeann. I thought I had trust issues. How will either one of them ever trust men again? Can Leeann’s faith remain strong when she learns the truth about this man she thought she loved?

  The door opens. For a second, I worry that it’s an officer coming to admonish me for spacing out, but no. It’s Detective Minot.

  “They got him,” he says. “Just got the call from Water Patrol.”

  “Oh, thank God.” That’s one good piece of news for Leeann. At least she won’t have to wonder where Mike is at night. “He’ll be convicted, right?”

  He nods. “Jonah’s physical exam was fairly conclusive. And we’ve got your account. Findley should get life in prison.” In a grim way, Detective Minot sounds pleased.

  “Poor Leeann,” I murmur. “This will destroy her.”

  “The mother?” Detective Minot’s mouth twists in scorn. “Please. She left her son alone with that bastard over and over. It was her job to protect her kid from perverts and she invited one into her home.”

  Maybe, if I didn’t know Leeann, I would agree with him. But I do know her. “She’s twenty-three years old,” I say quietly. “She thought she’d found her Prince Charming. Don’t put this on her.”

  “Look, we’ll do everything we can to help her and her son. There are support groups. Therapy. It’ll be a long, ugly road, but she’ll make it. So will the kid.”

  I lay my arms on the table and stare down at them. “I’m going to have to testify, aren’t I?”

  “Maybe. But this stuff can take years. He could take a deal, plead guilty. It might never even go to trial.” He peers at me, his haggard face softening. “You’ve been through a lot today. How you feeling?”

  “Stupid.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “How’s that?”

  “I was wrong.” I stare down at my half-completed written statement. “Everything I told you about Gabriel was wrong. I’m so sorry, Remy.”

  “What are you talking about?” He sits down across from me. “You saved that boy’s life.”

  “If I wasn’t so stupid, I wouldn’t have had to. I had the information I needed staring me in the face from day one, and I didn’t put it together. Who knows how many times Mike got his hands on Jonah that I could’ve prevented.” My stomach turns at the thought.

  “Jonah’s alive because of you.” Detective Minot leans across the table and studies me with intense blue eyes. “You can’t excuse his mom and then tell me you blame yourself.”

  “You don’t have to be nice. We both know that I’ve been wasting your time.”

  “You kidding me? Nobody would’ve known what happened to Sean Lauchlin if you hadn’t taken me to the sugar mill.”

  “You still don’t know what happened to Sean Lauchlin,” I point out. “They’ll probably never solve that case.”

  “Fine.” Detective Minot stands up. “If you want to sit around feeling guilty, go ahead. But I want you to know, this is why I joined the force. To help people. To get the bad guy. Knowing you and going through all this—it hasn’t been a waste of time for me,” he says. “It’s been an honor.”

  He’s gone before I can thank him, hug him, tell him the privilege was mine. Before I can tell him what an amazing and good man he is. There’s a lump in my throat when I think about leaving Chicory and never seeing Remy or Leeann again, but I take a sip of Sprite and press forward. I’ll find a way to express my gratitude to him later. Right now, I have to finish writing this damn statement.

  • • •

  JUSTINE CALLS as I’m packing early the next morning. She’s heard that I’m leaving today and wants to take me for a farewell breakfast. We meet at Crawdaddy’s, exchange quick hugs, and sit in a booth by the window. After ordering us a stack of pancakes and receiving the requisite coffee, Justine raises her mug in a toast.

  “To Charlotte. For keeping the little boys of Chicory safe.”

  “Thank your husband,” I tell her. “Thank Water Patrol. I’m not the one who caught Mike.”

  “I’m thanking you,” she insists. “You knew where to go and when. Remy said you did CPR on that child, kept him going ’til the paramedics got there.” She reaches across the Formica table and puts a hand on mine. “God did right when He picked you, honey.”

  I look around the diner at all the patrons. A whiskery man in a sweatshirt and hat. A woman reading the newspaper. A bearded father trying to ignore his squabbling twin daughters, who seem to be disputing ownership of a My Little Pony. Am I any different from these people? I want to tell Justine she’s wrong, that I’m not an instrument of God, just some woman plagued with bad dreams. The truth is, though, I’m no longer certain. Is there some omniscient Creator orchestrating everything? Probably not. But Jonah Landry still recognized me out there on the dock. He’d seen me before. His angel.

  Our gangly waiter arrives and presents us with an obscene pile of pancakes. “On the house,” he says. “The owner’s not in today, ma’am, but if he were, I
know he’d be givin’ you a whole lot more than pancakes. That was his grandbaby you helped yesterday.”

  Justine smiles as he leaves our table. “Guess I’m not the only one who thinks you’ve done good.”

  The kindness in Justine’s voice makes me unexpectedly sad. “Thanks,” I say.

  “For what?” She saws off a hunk of pancake and takes a bite.

  “For making me feel like I’m special and not a freak. You take my crazy dreams in stride.”

  “A freak? No.” She shakes her head. “Prophetic dreams are nothing new. Look at the Old Testament. You know the story of Joseph and what he did for Egypt, don’t you?”

  “Sort of.” I don’t have the heart to tell her that my knowledge is limited to what I can recall from a Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat revival.

  She gives me a quick recap. “The Pharaoh, his baker, and his cupbearer all had prophetic dreams. They just needed Joseph to help interpret them.”

  “I wish I’d had a Joseph to walk me through mine,” I tell her. “My interpretive powers haven’t been the best.” Her mention of the Bible reminds me of something I’ve been meaning to ask about: the story that was bookmarked in the Deveau Bible. “Justine, you must know the whole Judgment of Solomon story.”

  She nods. “The two mothers fighting over a baby. Solomon offers to cut the baby in half.”

  I wince. “That’s the one. What does that story mean to you? Is there some—I don’t know—special biblical message?”

  She stops eating and dabs her mouth with a napkin. “It’s funny you’re asking. I thought about that story a lot when Didi was sick.”

  “Why?”

  Justine exhales deeply, and I know things are about to get heavy. “Once the cancer spread and we knew she couldn’t beat it, we had to decide. Continue with treatment and try to extend her life a little, or stop. Let her go.” She swallows. “I kept thinking about that story, how the child’s true mother was willing to give up her baby to protect him.” She folds her hands on the edge of the table. “I knew I couldn’t protect Didi from dying. But I could protect her from pain. If I gave her up to God, I could save her some pain. It seemed like . . . that’s what a true mother would do.” She wipes her eyes, embarrassed. “Sorry.”