Deep in his subconscious, there was an agitation in the soporific splendour of his dreams; a fly in the ointment. Even though he was not aware he was asleep, he didn’t want to wake up, but the annoyance wouldn’t go away. It was like an inspect bite; easy to resist the irritation at first, but once scratched, the flood gates would open.
Eventually, awareness penetrated the soft grey tissues, his eyes opened, and he saw the blue LED flashing on the side of his phone. Someone had been looking for him. He checked the display. Ten missed calls; someone wanted him really badly. As consciousness flooded back like a rip tide, the phone resumed its strident ringing.
He glanced at the slightly garish glowing green digits on the ancient clock radio. It had been a purchase for college to ensure he was never late for classes; when his ambition still glowed as brightly as the luminous numbers. He sighed and then scowled with real venom; six forty am, this had better be damn good. He banged around on the bedside table with his hand, searching behind the clock radio until his scrabbling fingers gained purchase on the elusive instrument. He stabbed the green button and thrust it up to his ear.
‘Roussel!’ he barked into the microphone.
He heard a chair scrape in the background; someone had hastily pulled themselves upright, as if they hadn’t been expecting him to pickup.
‘Sorry to wake you sir,’ said the disembodied voice.
It was Granger, the duty officer who covered the night watch.
‘But we’ve got a report of suspicious activity out at the old mansion on highway eighteen.’
‘Which one?’ Roussel asked, suddenly interested, rubbing the sleep out of one eye while trying to stifle a yawn.
Granger chuckled to himself.
‘That’s right,’ he said, elongating the word right in his peculiar southern drawl, legacy of a misshapen bottom lip, acquired during a street fight in his delinquent youth. ‘There sure is a lot of em to chose from ain’t there.’
He paused and Roussel could hear the rustle of paper.
‘Ah here it is,’ he said finally. ‘It’s called Augustine mansion, near Vacherie. The person who reported it said it was on highway eighteen; the great river road. I dispatched uniform and they’ve already been out, but they came back to me with a request for a detective.’
Granger waited for almost a minute for a response. The only sign that someone was still at the other end was the sound of breathing coming from the receiver.
‘Sir, are you still there?’ asked Granger hesitantly.
‘I’ll be there in about forty minutes,’ said Roussel gruffly.
He stabbed the red button on his phone and tossed it roughly onto the bed. He looked around at the devastation that sufficed for normality in his small apartment. As he peeled the hot and sticky sheets away from his body, he noticed a semen stain. He tried to remember the last time he had sampled the delights of intercourse. Was it that long ago he had last washed them?
Swinging his legs out of the bed, he noticed the humidity level had dropped from barely able to move to just about tolerable, but your shirt will look like you’ve swam in it after an hour. He figured the scant weather-based relief must have been courtesy of the storm that had raged all night.
He picked his way gingerly across the debris of his life and into the small bathroom. The large stainless showerhead pumped cold water onto his body, making him start and shiver. It was the only time he would feel cold until the same time the following morning.
He stepped out of the shower and dried himself off. He studied the tattoos on his upper arms. Celtic designs had seemed like a good idea at the time; now he was not so sure. He pulled on a two day old white cotton shirt, wrinkled and creased from prolonged exposure to the floor and clicked his tongue; a remembered imitation of his mother’s annoyance. Still, in his defence, the shirt would be dripping wet within the hour; it hardly seemed worth the effort to iron it.
He pulled on his light brown chinos, and slipped his feet into heavily polished tan moccasins; the ones with the double tassels, his only sartorial extravagance. They were so heavily buffed you could literally see your face in them. He grabbed his phone and stuffed it into his pocket; couldn’t forget that.
As he picked his way toward the espresso machine, he pressed the play button on the large silver faced stereo system, smiling at the first refrain of the song.
Agents of the law: luckless pedestrians.
He pressed the requisite buttons on the coffee maker. The machine hissed and clicked, as he opened the cupboard under his bedside locker and removed his gun and wallet. Shrugging himself into the shoulder holster, he casually opened the wallet and studied it for a second. There was a St James Parish Sheriff’s Department, CID logo on one side and a silver shield with Detective Charles Roussel, 6566 below it with his picture.
The portrait had been taken when the smile still extended to his eyes; something that his jaded and disillusioned mind refused to allow his face to do anymore.
The espresso machine bleeped loudly, interrupting his self indulgence. He snapped the wallet shut and slipped it into his pocket. Grabbing his thin cotton jacket from the bottom of the bed, he eased himself into it before dispatching the bitter liquid in a single fluid motion. He banged the cup down on the counter in the kitchenette and then grabbed the keys as he went.
He rushed through the screen door and then the front door, slamming both of them closed behind him in quick succession. Making his way across the parking lot towards a battered Ford Taunus, he noticed the weird shadows cast by the early morning sunrise. He slipped on his Oakley sunglasses, a spur of the moment birthday present from his then girlfriend, seven years earlier, and slipped a spearmint gum into his mouth. It would have to do; a trick he’d perfected in lieu of brushing his teeth on early morning call-outs.
Traffic was sparse on the great river road, and he was thankful for the shades. The sun was dead ahead, and made it pretty much impossible to see where he was going. He almost missed the turn. It was a long time since he had made the journey; too long.
He pulled off the main road onto the verge and parked up; partly to investigate any possible tyre tracks or footprints for himself, but mostly for other reasons.
He walked about a hundred yards up the track and turned to his left. He pulled lightly on the wrought iron gate, and it swung towards him; not a hint of creaking on its well oiled hinges, his first surprise. The familiar twin emotions of guilt and annoyance threatened to overwhelm him.
Moving through the graveyard, he marvelled at how well tended it was. He thought about the smooth operation of the entrance gate. Someone was looking after it very well.
He spotted the grey and the pink granite stones, standing side by side like soldiers. He had been hoping against hope that they wouldn’t be there; that he had the wrong house.
He moved in front of them, his lips silently recounting the words. He already knew what was carved into the stones; he had written both of the inscriptions himself. He smiled without humour. He had referred to them as Beloved Father and Beloved Mother. And even through his deep sadness, sitting in the lawyer’s office, listening to their last wishes, he had blessed their foresight.
They hadn’t wanted an eighteen year old to be saddled with the twin burdens of a decaying plantation and a decaying plantation house, so they had ordered its immediate sale, with all proceeds going to a trust fund for his education and subsequent living expenses.
He looked back down the lane toward the main road. The last time he’d walked this strip of driveway, he had been sadly whistling his father’s favourite tune, with more than a little touch of melancholy. The death of his parents had been hard, but he couldn’t have stayed in the house; not close to so many shared memories.
He smiled in spite of himself. God, he’d been a bright eyed and naive little fucker. He’d managed to get himself a set of grades in high school that enabled him to get into Yale to do law. And boy was he ready to change the world. He was the hardest worker in his cla
ss, but his earnest southern boy mentality tended to alienate him from the rest of his classmates; mainly WASP’s from East Coast money and privilege. Even so, he kept to himself, head down into his studies and managed to emerge top of the class.
The inevitable bun fight ensued between the best firms over the top graduate. With hindsight, he should have gone south, but his instincts told him that the money, and ergo the real power, was on the East Coast. He still hadn’t given up his idealistic roots, so he figured it was also the place that he could make the most difference. He eschewed all the approaches from firms in the south with silent regret and accepted a position with Warner, Updike and Partners, the most prestigious law firm in Boston.
Initially it was great; the money was good and the kudos rolled in. He was feted as the most successful rookie in the practice. But then the cracks slowly began to show. He was regarded as a bit of a trophy; a southern show pony for the amusement of the Yankee gentry. The slight misgivings he had felt at first began to crystallise into huge disappointment. He felt he was always on the periphery.
He was the butt of jokes; they were always laughing at him rather than with him. And the last straw had been an overheard conversation in the gents toilets that had definitely not been for his consumption (he had been given the executive washroom key only a day previously and word had not got around.)
It was like an epiphany. The role he’d been playing was peeled away like a badly fitting overcoat and the fiery southern boy was at last let loose. He had downed half a bottle of Jim Bean at lunchtime. This had provided the impetus and drive to barge into the managing partner’s office during a case conference, helpfully providing the man himself with a concise and honest opinion on his lineage and sexual preferences, to the widespread amusement of the folks gathered around the table.
His last act had been to drop his executive washroom key into the nearest storm drain and he had then gone on a five day bender. He’d woken up in Shreveport with his belongings piled into a battered Ford Pinto.
Curiously, his calling to the law had still been as strong as ever, maybe more so, as he was finally among his own people. So he’d found a small apartment in Convent and considered his future. He decided to approach law enforcement from the other end; the gritty and realistic end. He applied to join local law enforcement and after a spell at police academy, he joined the parish of St James as a patrolman. He worked hard keeping the neighbourhood safe, but there was still a small vestige of ambition left in him. He studied hard over the next couple of years for his detective’s exams, and it was the proudest moment of his life when he was given his badge and asked to join the CID.
But that had been five years ago; his trust fund had bled dry the day he’d graduated from Yale and he found the constant dealing with the flotsam and jetsam of society, harsh and dehumanising. He also felt adrift in the community; he was effectively a ship without an anchor. And coming here to his childhood home had not had a positive effect on him. It had only served to highlight what was missing in his life. He had no roots and now, here, tonight, he realised where he needed to be. He needed to be on this land; his family’s land; his land.
‘Penny for them, Peeshwank?’
He chuckled in spite of himself. The county coroner always had a way with words.
‘Hey Guilbeau, enough with the pet names already,’ he said. ‘I’m no runt; not that I can say the same thing about you, little weasel man.’
Guilbeau was a small wiry Louisiana Cajun, who liked testing his fellow men on their knowledge of Louisiana Creole. He had a shock of white hair and leathered sun-beaten skin, the colour and texture of old shoes. But his eyes twinkled with a mischievous cobalt blue and there was genuine affection in his comments. He liked Roussel; they were kindred spirits.
‘What are you hanging around here for?’ he asked.
‘Paying my respects,’ said Roussel softly.
‘To whom?’ asked Guilbeau.
‘My Mom and Pop,’ Roussel said.
Guilbeau guffawed, but his laughter awkwardly trailed off, as he caught sight of Roussel’s face.
‘You’re serious aren’t you,’ he said.
Roussel nodded.
‘And all of this?’ asked the coroner.
He indicated the mansion and the land.
‘Sorry, don’t mean to pry,’ he added quickly.
‘No problem,’ said Roussel. ‘No need to apologise. Put simply, I was born here. When my parents were killed in a boating accident, their will stipulated that the house and estate be sold to pay for my education and welfare for as long as the corresponding trust fund could afford it.’
Guilbeau clapped Roussel on the shoulder.
‘I am truly sorry if I offended you, my friend,’ he said seriously. ‘I genuinely did not know.’
He looked around at the faded splendour of the plantation.
‘But I will say one thing. I think they did you a favour, those parents of yours; these places become an obsession. One chap I know, the estate destroyed his marriage, his family and then bankrupted him; all in the name of what; tradition?’
He paused.
‘No, I think you had a lucky escape, Peeshwank.’
Roussel thought about that statement, as the older man looked at him earnestly. Was his life any the less self destructive? At least that man had a passion and a drive for something. What did he, Roussel, have? An empty apartment filled with pizza boxes and half fulfilled dreams. He nodded at Guilbeau to let him know he understood and there were no hard feelings.
‘Any left?’ the coroner asked.
‘Any what?’ asked Roussel blankly.
‘The money; is there any of the money left?’
Roussel grinned at the question.
‘After my education was all paid for, I had enough for a round of tequila,’ he said. ‘The estate was sold at auction and the reserve was low.’
He paused for a second to catch his breath.
‘I don’t particularly care, it educated me after all, but if the executor had held out, he could have got a lot more.’
Who was he kidding? He did care it seemed; a lot more than he would have thought before tonight.
‘Money doesn’t give us riches, Peeshwank,’ said the coroner sagely.
‘Too true, my friend,’ said Roussel.
But he couldn’t shake the feeling, and he wasn’t sure that he wanted to; he was home.
They turned to leave, but a flash of white caught his eye. He gestured to the coroner that he would follow shortly and walked over to the object in question. As he approached the item, he realised that it wasn’t just one, but two new headstones. They were in a relatively uncultivated part of the plot. He tried to identify the unusual emotion that came flooding into his mind, and then realised what it was; jealousy. He was annoyed and affronted. This was his family plot; interlopers were not welcomed.
He took out his small leather-bound notebook. He ignored the first headstone. It was new all right, but he knew exactly who it was and why it was there. Jeremiah Bell had bought the place from his parents, so if he was gone, it must have a new owner now. He’d had no relatives to leave it to; he had always been just a bitter and twisted old man. Roussel made a note to look into the current ownership of the house.
He dated the next blank page and jotted down the name on the other headstone. He didn’t know why, but he had a feeling that it was important. Or maybe it was just plain old jealousy.
He tried to empty his mind of the conflicting personal emotions and wondered briefly if he should call the CID chief and let him know of his personal ties to the place. He dismissed the idea almost as soon as it was formed. He didn’t even know the scale or type of problem he was dealing with. The chief was a reasonable man; he’d understand.
He walked to the exit and closed the gate behind him, trying to use the closing action to stem the flood of his childhood memories.
Initially it didn’t seem to be working; all he could see was a younger and happier versi
on of Charles; running, laughing and playing without a care in the world. All the while, his eyes were moving, and his mind was trying to focus on the job in hand; scanning the ground in a seemingly random way. He was just about to give up and move on to the house, when he saw them; faint semi-circular patterns in the mud, running in a zigzag pattern across both sides of the drive.
His training clicked in and his mind emptied, concentrating purely on the problem in front of him. He bent down and inspected one of the marks. He noticed the diamond-like pattern; reminiscent of the back of a rattlesnake, and knew immediately what they were; tyre tracks.
He made a quick sketch of the pattern, even though he knew that the forensic team, who were probably already there, would do a much better job than he could. He liked to be thorough though, so he kept walking and scanning and then stopped again a few hundred yards further up. This time it was parallel markings he saw.
He crouched down and compared the pattern to the sketch in his book; it was not to scale and slightly different, but only due to his level of skill as an artist. These were also tyre tracks, and not only that, but made by the same vehicle. His reasoning kicked into overdrive. It was raining heavily last night, so the tracks had to be pretty new; all traces of other cars seemed to have been washed away by the storm.
There were two other sets, but these were different patterns from the drawing he held in his hand, and at a guess would be the coroner and the forensic team. He thought some more; one set were dead straight, right down the centre of the driveway, while the other set moved randomly from side to side.
An idea struck him; he started moving from one side to the other, and as he did so, he moved his arms as though he was steering a car, and then it became obvious to him. He snapped his notebook shut and continued on his way. He noticed more vegetation broken and flattened on the verge to the right and left; more fuel for his wild driving theory.
He didn’t know why, possibly too much speed, maybe a bit of panic, and a series of over corrections. But he did know one thing; the car those tyres belonged to did not leave in the same way that it had come.
The Storm Protocol Page 4