by Nancy Gideon
He’d be nothing again.
He stood in the bathroom doorway and glanced about his room’s spacious dimensions. He’d lived in it for almost thirty years and nothing had changed. He’d brought nothing of his own into it since that first time Jimmy had showed him in. The walls were still a blank white canvas, the drapes and bedspread a simple gray-and-white stripe brushing against the polished wood floor. All the surfaces were bare; he had nothing to put on them. No wallet, no car keys, no pictures or tokens, no watch, no television, no identity.
He’d never thought there was anything odd about how he lived until he’d stepped into Charlotte Caissie’s apartment. It vibrated with her strong personality, with her past, with her preferences. He’d been curious about the rodents but assumed they provided a degree of companionship. He’d asked about having an animal when he was younger. Francis Petitjohn had laughed at him and called him stupid. Didn’t he realize he was the family’s house pet? He’d never asked again.
This room was his reflection. Blank, barren, no sense of time or place. It just was.
He opened his closet and stared at the long line of tailored suits, enough to exquisitely clothe a boardroom filled with executives. The clothes Jimmy picked for him to wear. Wool and linen designer suits, shirts in fine cotton and silk, and beneath them a row of shiny shoes he’d never worn. Jimmy liked him to present a certain look, sleek, professional, and elegant. Like dressing up the house pet, to pass it off as acceptable family.
Ignoring the suits, Max pulled a dark blue track suit off its hanger. Francis had bought it for him, knowing that when he ran, he didn’t wear clothes and he went on all four legs. The fleece felt good against his skin, as he zipped the jacket all the way up to his chin. He left his feet bare.
As he picked up his ruined clothes from the floor, he lifted the leather coat. Soaked with water, it was twice its normal weight. He brought it to his face, buried his unbroken nose in its wet collar, and breathed deep, hoping that a trace of Charlotte remained trapped in the lining. But there was nothing left of her.
I love you, Max.
He knew she hadn’t meant it when she said it, but he’d hoped. He’d foolishly hoped that one day it would be true.
That day was never coming.
“MAX, SHUT THE door.”
Jimmy was calmer, in an almost benevolent mood. And why not? He was getting what he wanted: Max brought to heel. He watched the younger man’s approach with his step light, his moves easy, all strong, lethal grace. No signs remained of the broken creature weeping and groveling on his floor; he looked recovered from whatever self-abuse he’d allowed to befall him. His gaze was level, his features composed. And because he was glad to see Max looking like himself again, Jimmy forgave him the casual choice of clothing. But that’s all he’d forgive him.
“I can’t just let this go, Max. You know that.”
Max said nothing, by his silence, not disagreeing.
“You know you’re never going to be able to trust him, Jimmy,” came T-John’s soft summation. “Not until you tell him.”
Max’s glance flashed to the loosely coiled Petitjohn as Jimmy hissed, “Shut up, Francis. Max is none of your concern.”
“You’re wrong there, Jimmy. You built this whole shebang on that boy’s reputation. You should have told him while you could still handle him.”
“Max is not going to be a problem, are you, Max?”
But Max was regarding him with something different behind his impassive mask. Suspicion. And then he looked down at his bare feet and up again. Something else was shifting in his gaze. Something not quite so pleasant.
“The measure of a man is in his shoes.”
“What nonsense is that, Max?”
“Charlotte said it was something you told her. How would you know about that, Jimmy?”
“About what?”
“How would you know that’s what my mama always used to tell me? How would you know that?”
“That bitch just couldn’t keep her mouth shut.”
“Which one? Charlotte or my mama?”
Petitjohn chuckled. “I told you he’d figure it out Jimmy. He’s a lot smarter than you give him credit for.”
Max’s mind was turning quickly. “I doubt she told you that on the way to the cemetery, so when exactly did you have that conversation?”
“Max, it’s been thirty years.”
“Maybe to you, but it’s right there beside me every time I close my eyes. What aren’t you telling me, Jimmy?”
“Told you you were making a mistake, Cousin,” Petitjohn drawled. “Told you that nun wasn’t going to go running to her lady cop friend so you could kill them both, and keep poor Max all to yourself.”
Max remained focused on the man in the wheelchair. “Jimmy, what was the question you asked Sister Catherine to answer? Tell me.”
The old man hesitated. He looked from the hard lines of Max’s face to the scheming smirk of his cousin. He needed to calm Max first and regain control—then he’d deal with Francis Petitjohn, whom he’d mistakenly assumed was harmless.
“Max, everything I did was for you. They were using you—exploiting your talents, compromising your trust, taking advantage of you to get at me. I was trying to protect you.”
“From what? Having some kind of a normal life?”
“Nothing about you is normal, Max. There’s no place for you in a normal world. No expensive suit and smart-ass girlfriend is going to make you into a human man. The more you try to force yourself to fit in, the more obvious it is that you never will. The only place you’re safe is here.”
Max reared back as if slapped. Then he was carefully remote once more. “All I wanted to do was spend some time with a woman I cared for. What I am didn’t seem to bother her as much as it bothers you.”
Petitjohn stared at him in dismay. “Detective Caissie knows what you are?”
Realizing he’d said too much, Max offered no more.
“She’ll have to be dealt with,” Jimmy murmured to himself.
“Like Sister Catherine had to be dealt with? Why? What threat was she to you?”
“The fact that you don’t know is what makes them so dangerous. We’re going to have to keep you out of sight for a while. Keep you in here.” Jimmy looked grim. “It’s the only way you’ll be safe. You’ve made a mess of things with your infatuation for her. How much does she know? She’ll use that knowledge to hurt you.”
“To hurt you, you mean.”
“It’s the same thing.”
“No, I don’t think it is.” He looked at Jimmy a bit differently, as if seeing him for the first time. “I never would have betrayed you. Not to Charlotte, not to anyone. I’m not one of your belongings. I’m not a fancy suit to look good at your back, or a weapon to hold in your hand. You don’t own me, Jimmy.”
“Yes, I do. Everything you are is because of me. Before me, you were nothing. Nothing, Max. Outside these walls, do you know what you are? An abomination, something to be regarded with fear and hatred. Something to be destroyed.” He saw the anxious flicker in Max’s eyes and pressed on. “Without me to protect you they would be on you in a second, and your precious detective would be leading the way.”
He saw his miscalculation immediately. The instant he mentioned Charlotte Caissie, Max slipped the chain he was trying to secure once more. He’d been so close.
“No,” Max said softly, his tone filled with a curious revelation. “Without me to protect you, you are nothing.”
Petitjohn laughed. “Bingo.”
“When did you talk to my mother?”
“Max—”
He took a step back, brow lowering. “It was no coincidence, you finding me. You were looking for me.”
“I wanted to give you something better. I wanted to keep you safe. She understood that at first—then she changed her mind and wouldn’t let you go.”
Horror thickened his voice. “So you had her killed?”
“I never meant any harm to come to
her.”
“Why? Why me?”
Jimmy had no response to the horrible pain in that demand.
“Since Jimmy doesn’t want to, let me tell you a story, Max. Our fathers ran the docks,” Francis began, ignoring Jimmy’s sharp glare, “equal in all ways. Until Etienne made a remarkable discovery. He’d been listening to the superstitious rumblings of the loading crews, something about some mythical beast who could walk as a man. Nonsense, my father thought. But Etienne, who loved power more than he loved his brother, was intrigued and began to search for this phenomenal creature.”
“There are more like me,” Max whispered.
“At least one,” Petitjohn told him. “And he was ferocious. Those were different times. We owned the docks. Violence amongst ourselves was ignored by the law. Etienne and his discovery tore through the competition until the wharves ran red. And they ruled them, unchallenged, until the first Detective Caissie brought them crashing down. My father was killed; Etienne was imprisoned.”
“And what of . . . What happened to . . .”
“The beast?” Francis supplied with a smile. “No one knows.”
“Was he my father?” Max looked to Jimmy, his features keen with cautious excitement. When Jimmy wouldn’t answer, he turned to Francis.
“I don’t know, Max. There’s no one left to ask. Back to my story, there were three of us to inherit: me, my brother, and Jimmy. Equal in all ways. Are you sensing a pattern here? Jimmy killed my brother in a little disagreement, and then he had to scramble to find a way to protect himself from the rest of the family. That’s where you came in. You were just a kid, but by God, you could be terrifying. And with you standing at Jimmy’s back, he had Vantour and his dock labor behind him and pretty much won everything else hands down.”
Max let the tale digest slowly, then his eyes welled up with distress.
“Why?” He looked to Jimmy for a moment, his expression stripped down to the basic elements of hurt and sorrow. “I was just a child. Why couldn’t you have waited?”
“I couldn’t wait, Max. I needed to work with you when you could still be influenced.”
“Controlled,” he corrected bitterly.
“Yes, controlled. That’s what I learned from Rollo.”
Rollo. The one like him.
“He was arrogant and wild, and my father couldn’t get him to suppress his more primitive . . . appetites. You were young, Max. You didn’t understand the power you had. I was able to teach you restraint and respect.”
“You taught me to be afraid—afraid of everything outside these walls.”
“To protect you, Max.”
Suddenly, insight sank in cold and clear. “To protect you from me.”
And he watched the alarm begin to build in Jimmy’s face. He saw fear collect in his posture and dread widen his eyes.
With a cry of anguish, Max spun away, crossing his arms over his head, pacing the room in an erratic path. Finally he slowed and stopped, his back to the other two. “Why did you kill her? Why did you have to kill her?”
“It wasn’t supposed to happen that way. Believe me, Max.”
Max made a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob.
“They were supposed to take her out into the swamps to scare her, to convince her to let you go with them. They were supposed to give her money and let her go. They must have gotten greedy, or she must have tried to run with you.”
“They shot her. Right in front of me. I couldn’t do anything to stop them. But I made them sorry. I made them sorry.”
Jimmy watched his shoulders shake, regret swelling up in his own eyes. “Max, we didn’t know where they’d taken you. That’s why it took us so long to find you. You were never supposed to be harmed or frightened.”
Francis leaned close to his cousin to whisper, “You’ve lost him, Jimmy. Let him go, or take him down. Quickly.”
But Jimmy was determined to try to make amends. “Max, I wanted what was best for you.”
“And I wanted my mama back.” He whirled around. All traces of humanity were torn from his face as he roared, “It wasn’t your choice to make for me.” He surged forward two steps, then on all fours until he was in Jimmy Legere’s face, lips curling back from razor-sharp teeth, eyes red and gleaming. The hands gripping the arms of his wheelchair became hair-covered claws. “You stole my childhood! You destroyed everything I loved! And I will make you sorry!”
Jimmy Legere put a frail hand to the side of those gaping jaws and said softly, wearily, “I am sorry, Max. I am so sorry. I tried to protect you.”
In the time it took for him to take a tortured breath, Max was once again himself. He sank unsteadily to his knees, his world spinning. And he realized the irrevocable damage that had just been done. There was no going back to what was. Everything he’d built his life upon had just been pulled out from under him. Everything, everyone he loved, was lost to him.
“What am I supposed to do now, Jimmy?” he asked tonelessly. “How can I stay, now that I know?”
“You can’t, Max. You can’t stay.”
Slowly, Max lowered his head until it rested on Jimmy’s knees. The dangerous dazzle in his eyes dimmed, becoming a dull stare of pain too deep to endure. His anger died out to a cold ash of fatigue that smothered the last spark in his soul. He had nowhere else to go.
The familiar comfort of Jimmy’s hand on his hair softened the knowledge of his other hand reaching into the cushions of his chair. He was too tired to react as the slow stroke of that hand on his head had his eyes closing, his shoulders instinctively relaxing.
This was what he knew. What he’d trusted and loved. His terror of a world where he didn’t belong, where he’d be so glaringly, agonizingly alone, where he’d know nothing but fear, have no one who cared, was greater than accepting the will of this man who owned his life.
You do it, Jimmy. He’d meant it then. He’d abide by it now.
“You know I’ve always loved you, Max. Just like a son.”
“I know, Jimmy,” he whispered hoarsely.
“I promised to take care of you. To do what’s best for you. It’s not a promise that’s easily made or easily kept, but I made it to you and I’ll see it through.”
“I know you will.”
Feeling the cold metal touch the base of his skull, he took a slow breath to calm his thoughts, and let them fill with Charlotte Caissie. With the way she’d looked in that smoky spotlight, filling up his gaze, flooding his heart: his bronze warrior woman. Where just for a moment he could pretend that she might love him.
Even prepared for it, the sound of the shot made him jump. Blood, wet and warm, was on his face, his neck, his hands. Blood that wasn’t his own.
Understanding struck with the sudden brutality of the bullet fired from Francis Petitjohn’s gun. With a raw cry, Max backed out from under Jimmy’s crumpled form. Scuttling backward, he sat stunned into a blankness of heart and mind. His breath came fast until his senses swirled in a dizzying loss of time and place. He could smell the swamp, the rot and decay. And death; the awful, invasive stink of death. The cold ooze of it seeped along his bones, rising, sucking him under. A low wailing sound rose in his throat, but he shut it off tightly.
If they heard they would come back, and they would find him and they would take him from his mother. And he would be alone. And all the horrible things she warned of would come to pass. Without her to protect him, everyone would know. Everyone would know what he was.
Please, don’t leave me! Don’t leave me here alone!
“Max.”
His gaze swam back into a vague focus. He didn’t know where he was. The smell of blood was everywhere, thick and nauseating. He could see a hand stretched out to him, offering a connection, the means to pull him from the terrifying nothingness of the swamp.
He hesitated. Something wasn’t right.
“Max, take my hand.”
“Jimmy?”
“Jimmy’s gone, Max. I’ll take care of you now. I’ll watch out
for you. All you have to do is take my hand.”
He stared at that avenue of escape while horror and darkness shuddered through him, pulling him back. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move.
Please. Please, don’t leave me here alone.
“Max, we’re going to need each other to get through this now. I have to know I can count on you. We’re family. I’ll take care of you.”
The voice was soft, coaxing, convincing him to look up to where Francis Petitjohn was smiling down at him.
“Max, take my hand. You can stay here. You’ll be safe. I promise you.”
And slowly, numbly, he lifted his hand, letting the man who’d killed the only father he’d ever known take it, drawing him back into the only world he understood.
Fourteen
CEE CEE SAW the events unfold, beginning with the stains just inside Jimmy Legere’s office. Smears of blood, imprinted with Max’s palms and Converse treads. She’d done that. She’d hurt him and sent him back to fall on his knees to Legere. On the far side of the room was a mess of blood, brain, and bone, bisected by wheelchair tracks and bare feet. She stared at both areas with an odd analytical distance until she felt Alain Babineau’s supportive grip on her arm.
“Let go,” she told him flatly. “I’m not going to fold.”
That claim was reinforced when she glanced out onto the wide veranda where Junior Hammond was in his glory, taking Francis Petitjohn’s preliminary statement. Petitjohn looked remarkably relaxed and compliant. Junior glanced up, saw her, then scowled.
“Would y’all mind keeping out of my crime scene, thank you very much?”
They’d passed the stretcher ferrying Legere to the coroner’s wagon on the way in. Learning the sketchy details on the ride out helped her maintain a stoic front while her heart was banging a frantic rhythm.
“Where’s Savoie?” Babineau yelled back, saving Cee Cee from having to make the request.
“Not on the premises. According to Petty John here, Savoie slipped the scene while he was calling 9-1-1. Don’t worry, we’ll pick him up. He can’t have gone far on foot with Legere’s thinking parts all over him.”