by Matt Hilton
For a long drawn out second their eyes locked. Then Darius snatched the gun down, and pulled the trigger.
Po’s eyelids pinched at the muzzle flash, and he exhaled slowly.
A hole was punched cleanly through Zeke’s hat, the expended round lost deep in the dirt beneath.
‘Told you I’d put a bullet through dat stinkin’ cap.’
Darius turned the gun around and offered the butt to Tess. She took it.
The sounds of the approaching couple drew their attention from the unconscious murderer. Now the fighting was over, Pinky allowed Emilia to run forward. She threw herself into her father’s arms, and he pulled her close, allowing an uncharacteristic shout of joy that she was safe.
Tess watched Po.
He stood stoically, watching the family reunion without comment. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from his sister; it was understandable, being the first time he’d laid eyes on his blood kin. To Tess, Emilia’s parentage could never be in question again, Emilia only had to look at him and she’d see her male counterpart staring back.
FORTY-SIX
It was hours later before any of them made it back to Clara’s bedside. Without exception all had been rounded up by the responding police officers and taken to the New Iberia Police Department on Main Street, where they were questioned individually. Zeke, and Jim Croft, arrested but whisked off to hospital rooms of their own, were exempt from questioning while they underwent surgery. Croft, it transpired, hadn’t been clear of the panel van when Tess rammed it in order to save Darius Chatard’s life, and had been found soon after the police arrived at the scene, having only managed to crawl a short distance with his legs broken. Both patients were under armed guard, while Tyson, Rory, and Harry were all jailed at the Iberia Parish Sheriff’s Office facility off Broken Arrow Road. The Chatards faced possible charges, but there wasn’t a district attorney who would seriously consider sending them to prison for acting in self-defence or for assisting in the rescue of Emilia, who was to be the latest in a string of murder victims of the Menon brothers. Emilia had killed Cleary; but again, to save her life and another’s. The police also viewed the brave actions of Pinky Leclerc, Po, and Tess favorably, and they wouldn’t be facing charges either, if all went to plan. As a special dispensation, in light of Clara’s failing mortality, further questioning was suspended in order to allow the closest family members to attend her bedside. They were all under instruction to return to the police station later in the day.
Tess stood outside the private room, with Pinky seated in the same chair as yesterday when first spotting Zeke Menon. But instead of vigilantly watching the halls for anyone who might disturb Po and his mother, Tess peeked through the narrow slots between the window blinds at the gathering of people inside the room. The sombre family members were huddled around Clara’s bed. She was a tiny figure, with a white sheet pulled up to her armpits. As Tess watched, she saw the old woman’s head tilt to one side, and her lips move fractionally. Tess followed the direction and saw Emilia seated alongside her mom, holding the woman’s left hand. Emilia wept openly. Darius stood over her, Francis next to him. Leon – the brother Tess hadn’t met – stood on the other side of the bed, one arm in a sling, his other hand bandaged. Jean Chatard was also there, and a couple of women that Tess took to be the wives or girlfriends of some of the Chatard males. A doctor and a nurse attended to their duties in respectful silence, but on hand for the unavoidable. Po stood apart from the others at the foot of the bed. Tess wanted to enter the room, to hold his hand, but he had asked her to wait outside. She didn’t feel embittered by the exclusion, and knew it was for the best.
Clara had said what she wanted to impart to Emilia. Her daughter turned and stared at Po, her face blanched of all colour. She didn’t rise from her seat, nor go to him and hug her long lost brother. But then, Tess suspected that Emilia had an inkling of her true parentage all along, and the instant she’d laid eyes on Po she’d known who he was. Under other circumstances, the young woman’s response might have exhibited as anger. Po was the man who’d killed two half-brothers she’d never met. But there wasn’t a shred of accusation in her turquoise gaze as she peered at him. He’d also fought to save her life and stop the men hunting her, and the evidence was in his battered appearance. She mouthed two small words: thank you.
Her job done, Clara died.
There was no sense of the miraculous to Tess as the old woman passed over, no melodrama, nor hysteria from her loved ones.
Clara simply closed her eyes, and those in the room only stirred momentarily as the ECG monitor fell silent. Then the doctor and nurse moved in, and Emilia bowed her head, and clutched Clara’s hand to her face. Darius rested a comforting palm on his daughter’s shoulder – despite Clara’s final message Emilia would always be his child. The old man’s face was clouded as he peered down at his dead wife. When he regarded Po it was with wet eyes.
Po left the room and respectfully closed the door to allow Clara’s nearest and dearest to grieve in peace.
Tess hugged him. He hugged her as well, but as he did, he moved with her to leave. Pinky stood, but before he could follow, the door opened again.
‘Nicolas.’
It wasn’t his friend. Tess turned around with him, and faced Darius Chatard.
‘You’re leaving?’
‘Soon as we get clearance from the police,’ said Po.
‘You aren’t staying for your mom’s funeral?’
‘It’s probably best that I don’t.’
Darius nodded – he understood – but it wasn’t what he had hoped for. His accent wasn’t affected by anger when next he spoke. ‘Things weren’t good between you and your mom for a long time. I get that. But you know, everything’s different now.’
‘It is?’
‘It is to me.’
‘Does that mean we’re friends now?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far.’ Darius smiled sadly. ‘But we needn’t be enemies.’
‘It was never by my choosing.’
‘I know that was on me.’ Darius limped over to face Po from a mere couple of feet. Emotion reddened his eyes. ‘I just didn’t know when to let things go. But I was an idiot back then. You might say I’m still prone to episodes of idiocy these days, too. But I’m not a fool, and I’m not ungrateful. If it weren’t for you’ – Darius took in Tess and Pinky with his assertion as well as Po – ‘Emilia would have died. You took away two of my boys, but you’ve given back to me my girl and to your mom some peace of heart before she died. I can’t give you back your father. Back then, if I’d manned up and took a beating from Jacques, nobody else needed to die, lives needn’t have been ruined. I wish I could turn back the clock, because I swear I would do that. It was all on me, Nicolas, and I do see that now. All I can give you is an apology and my hand. I’m sorry.’
Tess didn’t offer a word of guidance to Po. Their family feud had run and run, an unhealed, scabrous wound that occasionally festered into an open sore. It had affected Po’s life negatively for decades, made of him an ex-con and an exile from his own homeland. Forgiveness of Darius Chatard might prove a bitter pill to swallow, though it was the only thing that might heal the raw wounds still afflicting him. After everything he’d endured she wouldn’t blame her man if he spat on the offer of reconciliation. But the decision was his to make. She’d stand by him whatever he chose to do.
With that resolution in mind, she was still relieved when he accepted Darius’s hand and shook it.
FORTY-SEVEN
One aspect of Louisianan culture that had always raised Tess’s eyebrows was the practice of playing jazz music at funerals, usually a dirge beforehand and an upbeat ragtime tune after. But apparently the tradition was unique to New Orleans and hadn’t yet found its way to New Iberia. There were no jazz bands playing in Memorial Park Cemetery when Clara Chatard was laid to rest, the proceedings sombre, almost subdued, as her family and friends observed her coffin lowered into the grave. Darius and his children, Emilia in
cluded, stood closest to the edge, waiting until the coffin settled at the bottom before scattering handfuls of consecrated dirt and tokens of affection – flowers and favourite baubles – on the casket. They didn’t linger. The day was clear, the skies a pale blue, but the cold spell had yet to lift and the promised warmth of their cars was welcome.
Of her children, only Po waited a little longer, and Tess and Pinky didn’t rush him. He was deep in thought as he watched the funeral directors arrange boards covered in fake turf over the open grave, then set upon them the floral memorials brought there by the other mourners. Clara’s grave would be filled in once the members of the funeral party had left the cemetery. There was no permanent marker – it would be erected after the backfilled earth settled – but even then would be a headstone unlike those Tess was familiar with in the north. Those she’d noticed nearby were more akin to inscribed paving stones, set into the lawn, unobtrusive monuments. Over many years the grounds had been developed to include a wide variety of trees and shrubs, and the inclusion of upright stones would have spoiled the natural look. If she didn’t know otherwise Tess would swear she was standing in a recreational park, a place for family picnics and leisure and not where the bodies of the deceased resided underfoot.
Despite his words to Darius at the hospital Po had decided to attend – they couldn’t leave New Iberia parish until lawful process had been completed anyway – and Tess was glad that he had. It was necessary if he were going to truly put the past to rest. She wondered what was going on behind his stoic features as he observed the funeral directors at work. In the end he gave no clue, only turned and walked away. Tess and Pinky glanced at each other, and then fell into step in his wake. He didn’t return to their car.
Jacques Villere, Po’s father, was also buried at Memorial Park. She remembered the time on their first case together when she’d believed that he had abandoned her in Baton Rouge, and later discovered that he’d snuck off to visit his dad’s grave, right here. Jacques had a headstone, a flat polished granite slab set deep in the turf. Po knelt and touched the stone, speaking too low for her to hear. But when he stood, his features weren’t as stony as before, and his gaze clearer. He offered the flicker of a smile, but then his gaze settled on a point beyond his friends, and he grew an inch in height as he straightened up. Tess followed his gaze.
Walking towards them was Emilia, bearing a single rose. Beyond her, Darius Chatard waited at the open door of a black limousine that had carried him and his closest family to the cemetery.
‘I wanted to see where our dad was buried,’ Emilia said as she came to a halt directly in front of them. Po’s eyelids pinched as he spied Darius, noting the man’s slow nod of approval. He’d obviously given Emilia his blessing to visit the grave: proving he was a better man than any of them had initially thought.
Po turned and indicated Jacques’s resting place.
Emilia stood alongside him. She peered down at the grave of her biological father, and Tess was struck again by her likeness to the man she loved. Both Villeres stood in silent contemplation, before Emilia finally knelt and laid the flower on their father’s memorial stone. She stood, and her right hand found Po’s left. It was the first time the siblings had touched, and for the briefest moment Tess expected Po to draw away. Yet he didn’t. He folded Emilia’s smaller hand in his and held on.
‘I hated him,’ Emilia whispered, then looked up at Po, tears glistening in the cold light.
‘Understandable,’ Po said.
Emilia shook her head.
‘I don’t now that I’ve learned the truth. I used to hate you too.’
‘Also understandable.’
This time she didn’t immediately answer. She turned and gazed at Tess and then Pinky, whose lips quivered between a smile and a grimace: he wasn’t good at hiding his emotions the way Po was. ‘But that was … before,’ Emilia finally said. ‘Everything I was told was based on lies. Nicolas … I don’t hate you now.’
Po nodded marginally, and Tess wished he would give his sister a hug, but knew he wouldn’t. But his nod told her that he was of a similar opinion to Emilia, without having to display a range of raw emotions. Again Emilia took in Tess and Pinky. ‘I’d like to get to know you all better, but I know that isn’t really possible.’
‘There’s no reason why not,’ Tess offered.
But Emilia shook her head softly. ‘Y’all are leaving today, right?’
Pinky was driving them back for their return flight to Portland from Baton Rouge immediately after they left the cemetery.
‘I’ll be back this way soon,’ Po said, which came as a surprise to Tess until she considered that they would probably all have to return to give evidence at the trials of Zeke, Alistair Keane, Nathaniel Corbin, and the others. ‘Maybe we could spend some time together then?’
‘I’d like that,’ Emilia said, but she still wasn’t satisfied.
‘Or you could come visit us,’ Tess improvised on the spot. ‘Have you ever been to Maine?’
‘I’ve never even been out of Louisiana,’ Emilia replied.
‘Then you’ll need a guide in the north,’ Pinky interjected, ‘and I know the very man for the job, me. I’ve been threatening to go back to Portland after my last vacation there was cut short.’ He didn’t mention that his last trip to visit Po and Tess had ended with him getting shot. ‘How’s about we travel to Maine together, little Emilia, keep each other company, us?’
Emilia looked expectantly at Po.
‘I’ve got the room at my place,’ he said, ‘if you’ve got the inclination.’
Pinky clapped his hands together. The deal was sealed and he wasn’t about to allow any second thoughts to creep in. ‘So we’ll exchange contact numbers, and get our heads together, see what we can come up with, us. Now, Nicolas, give the girl a hug, so I can get you on that plane home. Sooner you’re gone, the sooner we can come avail ourselves of your hospitality.’ He turned to Tess. ‘Don’t worry; you won’t be left out, pretty Tess. Come here and give me a hug, why don’t you? Just in case we don’t get the opportunity for a proper goodbye at the airport.’
‘You’ll use any excuse to get your paws on me,’ Tess grinned, but loved it when his warmth engulfed her and she was hauled off her feet. As Pinky spun her in one of his patented embraces, she watched over his shoulder as Po and Emilia held each other briefly. Theirs wasn’t as exuberant a display of affection, but she believed it was every bit as heartfelt. She didn’t feel at odds feeling as overjoyed for Po even in the surroundings of a graveyard: and even hoped that if Jacques and Clara could do so they’d observe the coming together of their children and be as happy for them.
FORTY-EIGHT
After …
‘So … Ron Bowen wasn’t murdered,’ said Po, wearing the faintest of smiles. He was sitting in the office of Charley’s Autoshop in Portland, Maine. Although it wasn’t his name above the door, Po owned the business, while Charley managed the day-to-day workload. Po had adopted his usual position at his desk, feet propped up on it, crossed at the ankles, with his arms behind his head. His cuts and bruises had all but disappeared, but then it was a week since Clara’s funeral.
‘He wasn’t strangled,’ Tess confirmed, before shaking her head at the inanity of her next words, ‘the ME report states he choked to death on a bolus of food that got wedged in his throat.’
‘OK, so I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but I was right about him choking to death. Maybe I’m not the worst detective in the world?’
‘Doesn’t say much for me,’ Tess said, leaning in the open doorway. There was little room in the cramped office and most of it was taken up with discolored paperwork, old spare parts brochures, and an archaic computer that was as grimy as the desk it sat upon. Everything was covered with oily fingerprints. Po looked perfectly at home. By trade he was a mechanic, but since teaming up with Tess found that tinkering with engines wasn’t an occupation that played to his greatest strengths. These days he rarely visited the autoshop, or the
public bar he owned, content to be by her side on a case.
‘You’re an excellent detective,’ he reassured her.
Since their return from Louisiana she’d raised the subject a few times, of how they had been very fortunate to solve the case and save Emilia. Most of their success was down to being in the right – or wrong – place at the opportune time. But Po had reminded her that much of what she was working from was off the back foot, and having to react to messes he caused. Left to her own devices she’d have conducted a more pointed and resolute investigation, and gotten the same result, but she’d allowed him to have his way, for which he’d be eternally grateful.
‘If only I’d dug a little deeper at Bowen’s house I’d have spotted the half-eaten sandwich in the kitchen and come to the correct conclusion about his death.’
‘It sure looked as if there’d been a struggle to me.’
‘The consensus is he was eating lunch, and went to the door – perhaps to gather his mail from the mailbox – and began to choke. In his panic he left the door ajar while trying to rush to the kitchen to sick up the food in the sink. But before he got there he grew woozy, knocked into the furniture, and collapsed. The other part of the sandwich he was eating was found squashed underneath him when his body was moved. And wouldn’t you just know it, his sandwich was a shrimp po’boy?’
Po’s smile grew wider at the dig about his nickname. ‘Did you get any stick from your old colleagues for crying wolf?’
She snorted. ‘Poor choice of words.’
‘Perfect choice of words.’
Down in the Deep South the ‘Rougarou Case’ was still making headlines. Alistair Keane and Nathaniel James Corbin had swiftly been arrested and charged alongside Zeke Menon and his lackeys. Their parts in the various kidnappings and murders were subject to further, and prolonged, investigation, but all the conspirators were facing long jail terms on serious federal charges. The bodies of Hal and Jamie Thibodaux, Jason Lombard, and an environmental activist identified as Christina Swan had all been exhumed from the foundations of a soon-to-be-erected concrete stanchion on the route of the pipeline. Nate Corbin had engaged the services of a very expensive law firm to fight his case, and had been awarded bail set at seven figures. Corbin was good for the money, but he left the others to fend for themselves in the county lock-up. If all went to his plan, Keane and the bunch of rednecks he’d hired to do the dirty work would take the blame, while he was confident he would be exonerated. He swore he was ignorant to what the subcontractor was doing to meet deadlines and ensure his productivity bonuses.