I think he can see how uncomfortable his touch makes me. I think he likes it.
His leg swings slightly. The scales on his shiny alligator-skin boot catch the fluorescent light overhead and wink as if to mock me.
“You’re trying to get something on me because you know I’ll never stop coming after you for killing my boy,” he asserts matter-of-factly, and I swallow because he’s right.
For a split second, I’m tempted to let the truth bleed out of me like a mortal wound. I’m not cut out for keeping secrets, and this one’s been a cancer in me for ten long years.
If I confessed, maybe I could keep Luc out of it. I could say I hit Dean with that rock while Luc was back at the truck, that Luc never saw what happened, and then…what? How could I, a sixteen-year-old girl who barely weighed a buck ten soaking wet, have gotten rid of Dean’s two-hundred-pound body?
Plus, Luc would never let me go it alone. If I confessed, he’d confess. And I can’t… I can’t let him suffer for something I did.
Glancing at the blinking red light on the camera, I lift my chin and refuse to speak.
Sullivan’s lips press into a line so thin they’re completely covered by his mustache. Then he leans forward, his mouth close to my ear, his words too low for the camera to record. “Go on and keep quiet. It won’t matter none. In the end, by fair means or foul, I always get my man. Or woman.”
A bead of perspiration drips down the groove of my spine. If I look down, I know I’ll see the armpits of my pajamas dark with sweat stains—he didn’t wait for me to change out of my Harry Potter jammies before frog-marching me to the police station.
“Now…” he continues, sitting back and allowing me space to drag in a shaky breath. “I’ll ask you again, why are you going around trying to make folks tell lies about me?”
I’m ready to let loose with the same old song and dance, but I’m stopped by a commotion outside the door. Raised voices sound alongside a scuffling noise that’s immediately followed by a loud bang when the door bursts open.
“—can’t go in there!” One of the officers who came to my apartment with Sullivan is blocking the door.
“I can. And I will.” A man I don’t recognize pushes past the policeman. He’s wearing a three-piece suit and shiny brown Oxfords. An expensive-looking satchel is slung over one shoulder, and a pair of stylish glasses magnifies the sharpness of his gaze when he looks at me. “Miss Carter?”
“Y-yes?” Dang it. There it is again. That brittle, weak-sounding edge to my voice.
“I’m David Abelman. Your lawyer.”
I blink dumbly. “My lawyer?” Is it possible I conjured one from thin air?
“Are you arresting her?” a familiar voice demands. I turn to see Luc standing in the doorway. With his muscled arms crossed and righteous indignation shining in his dark eyes, he looks like an avenging angel.
I didn’t realize how tightly my insides were wound until I feel them unravel so fast I get dizzy.
He came.
“Well?” Abelman asks Sullivan, checking his watch. His salt-and-pepper hair is neatly parted on one side, and his face is pleasant without being particularly handsome. It’s impossible to guess his age. “Are you arresting her?”
Sullivan jumped from the table when the door burst open. Now he’s standing behind my shoulder. When I turn to look up at him, I can see he’s livid. His face is so red it’s nearly purple. Instinct has me scooting forward in my chair, putting as much distance between us as possible.
“If you’re not arresting her,” Abelman goes on, “then I’ll kindly ask you to uncuff her.”
Sullivan glances down at me, his left eyelid twitching. “I’m not done with you,” he hisses.
“Mr. Sullivan”—Abelman’s tone borders on boredom—“I’ll thank you not to threaten my client unless you want me to file a formal complaint with the district attorney’s office.”
Sullivan doesn’t respond. Instead, he stomps from the room, shoulder-checking Luc on the way out.
Luc looks like he’d like nothing better than to smash Sullivan’s face in. But rather than attacking a man of the law inside a police station, he turns toward the officer still standing in the doorway and says, “Uncuff her, please.”
His request would sound perfectly cordial if I didn’t know him so well. It takes a learned ear to hear the latent threat in his voice.
Reluctantly, the policeman shuffles over to me, unlocking my cuffs under the watchful eyes of Luc and Abelman.
As soon as I’m free, I run to Luc. He catches me against him, holding me tight when all my courage deserts me. Tears clog the back of my throat. Every muscle in my body shakes.
“Shhh, Maggie May.” He runs a hand down the back of my hair. “It’s okay. I gotcha.”
Chapter Forty-eight
______________________________________
Cash
Dear Cash,
Vee came home for the weekend. Besides a basket full of dirty clothes, she brought with her tons of stories of college life. She actually came into my room, sat on my bed, and TALKED to me.
I can’t remember the last time she did that. And it made me think that maybe she’s forgiven me.
Yeah, yeah. I know you and Luc and Eva and everyone else say there’s nothing to forgive. That it’s not my fault my folks are gone. But whether that’s true or not, the fact of the matter is their deaths drove a wedge between me and Vee that I thought could never be removed.
Now I have some hope.
Anyway, to celebrate her homecoming, the aunts took us to the Napoleon House for dinner. Auntie June loves their grilled alligator sausage sandwich. And it’s weird. I’ve eaten there dozens of times, but I never thought to ask where the place got its name.
Turns out, it was actually supposed to BE Napoleon’s house. As in THE Napoleon.
Apparently, Jean Lafitte hatched a plan to spring Napoleon from his exile on Saint Helena. Lafitte was going to bring the Little Corsican back to the Big Easy, and the house on the corner of Chartres and St. Louis was set up to be his residence. But Napoleon died before Lafitte could set sail.
Isn’t that fascinating? To think I’ve lived here all my life and that’s the first time I’ve heard that story. It makes me wonder, are places like people? Do you ever truly know them?
Did I ever truly know you? The more time that goes by without hearing from you, the more I wonder…
Love, Maggie
The narratives we tell about ourselves are always filled with misrepresentations, blind spots, and partial truths.
It’s rare to be completely clear when indulging in self-reflection. But one thing I can’t deny or discount is that my anger tends to spark easy. Probably because I was born with more fuses than the average person.
I blame that on the man who sired me.
“Why the hell didn’t you call me?” The volume of my voice sends a meat cleaver into my cerebral cortex. I hastily remove my flask to take a sip of Gentleman Jack.
“There wasn’t time,” Luc insists.
He’s sitting in one folding chair, while Maggie, still in her pajamas, slumps listlessly in the other. She looks like a wet dishcloth that’s been hastily wrung out and left crumpled on the kitchen counter. As for me? I’m pacing the length of the living room, too outraged to sit or to appreciate the beauty of the wood floors, which are finally ready for stain and varnish.
Can’t believe Sullivan had the nerve to barge into Maggie’s apartment at the butt crack of dawn and drag her down to the police station.
Oh, wait. Yes, I can. The man’s a total dickbag.
“When Jean-Pierre called to tell me what happened, I was already fifteen minutes from the swamp house,” Luc adds. “I spent the rest of the drive into town frantically calling everyone I know who might be able to put me in touch with a good lawyer. I reckoned springing Maggie May from the clink was more important than taking the time to fill you in on what was going on.”
“Saying I was in the clink makes me so
und like a convicted felon,” Maggie mutters. “I wasn’t in the clink. I was in an interrogation room.”
Yeah. An interrogation room. The thought of Sullivan handcuffing her to a table and grilling her for even one second is enough to make a sick sensation swirl in the bottom of my belly. Or maybe that’s the whiskey. Skipped breakfast, so there’s nothing in my gut to cut its strength.
“You were in an interrogation room without a lawyer. Without having been granted a phone call. Without having been read your rights. What happened will not stand.” I stop pacing to point a finger at Luc. “Get that lawyer to press fucking charges.”
He pats the air. “Look, what Sullivan did sticks in my craw too. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to go off with my pistol half-cocked. We gotta play this thing smart. Let’s talk with Maggie May’s cop friend, see where we stand on bringing Rick and Sullivan down before we go ’round pressing charges that may or may not hold water.”
“He illegally detained her.” My back molars might explode if I grind my teeth any harder.
“Yeah. But that’ll get him what? A slap on the wrist? A suspension? Are we or are we not looking to bring the bastard down for good?”
I hate to admit when Luc’s right, but… “You’re right.” I take a deep breath, hoping it’ll tamp down my rage.
“Maybe we should press charges,” Maggie says. “If we press charges, then Sullivan will be too busy fighting those to come after us.”
Luc cocks his head. “Did he tell you something about what he’s cooking up? Did he give anything away that might give us—”
“No.” She cuts him off. “But there was a look in his eye and a tone in his voice. I think he’s close to setting something in motion.”
That disconcerting announcement fills the room like a noxious gas, making each of us grimace.
Eventually, Luc shakes his head. “We can’t start playing defense. We gotta stick with our plan.”
“I agree.” I nod emphatically. “Once we’re knocked back on your heels, it’ll be tough as hell to gain the upper hand.”
“Exactly. And if Sullivan does make a move before we’re further along in the process”—Luc’s jaw sets at a hard angle—“then we’ll bring Abelman in to throw as many wrenches in the works as he can.”
“Right,” I agree. Then I frown when an unsettling notion occurs. “Did you…” I pin him with a look. “Did you tell him why Sullivan detained Maggie? Did you tell him what happened in the bayou?”
“I told him the same story we’ve been telling everyone else,” Luc says. “The only folks who know the true scope of what happened that night are here in this room.”
“Right.” I nod. Then a memory surges, and I turn to Maggie. “Wait a minute. That first evening we met Jean-Pierre, he thanked Luc for saving you. If he wasn’t talking about the bayou, what was he talking about?”
Luc and Maggie exchange a look. Is it my imagination, or does color climb into her cheeks? “What?” I demand. “Why are you two sending each other coded eye messages?”
She starts picking at a hangnail. “Jean-Pierre was…uh…talking about Luc befriending me and giving me a reason to live when I’d lost all hope,” she admits quietly.
I blink, too stunned to speak.
She glances up at me, and this time there’s no mistaking the two red flags of color flying in her cheeks. “Don’t look at me like that, Cash. I was a teenage girl with dead parents, clinical depression, oppressive guilt, and raging hormones.”
I finally find my voice. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”
She hitches a shoulder. “By the time you arrived on the scene, the impulse had passed, and I was ashamed I’d ever had it in the first place.” Her chin firms as she looks at me pointedly. “You understand how shame can make someone keep secrets, don’t you?”
Touché. I run a hand through my hair. “Damn, Maggie. I wish I’d known.”
“Would it have changed anything? Would it have made you stay?”
I clench my jaw, not knowing how to put into words that my leaving didn’t have a thing to do with her. On the contrary, it was a question of survival. The survival of my soul.
“Exactly.” She nods, accurately reading my expression. Then her chin wobbles, evidence that even though she’s trying to be brave, this conversation is getting to her.
It’s a mistake to touch her, but I can’t stop myself from pulling her from the chair and into a hug. The guilt and shame I feel at being the one to have set this awful chain of events into motion, coupled with the knowledge that she’d once been so lost she’d thought death was her only option, are too much to bear. A world without Magnolia May Carter would be a dark and hopeless place, indeed.
Her arms are around me in an instant, squeezing me tight.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper into her hair. “I’m sorry for everything.” The whiskey on my breath mixes with the wildflower smell of her shampoo. I hate that I’m tainting her in that way. In any way.
Her muscles seem to uncoil until she’s soft and pliable in my arms. “It’s okay. I’m okay.” She pats my back as if it’s me who needs reassuring.
I hold her at arm’s length and force a smile. “Thank goodness Jean-Pierre was at your place this morning, or we’d never have known that dickmunch Sullivan grabbed you.”
She makes a face. “Jean-Pierre’s at my house every morning. He claims to like going on walks with me and Yard, but the truth is he’s too cheap to buy the good coffee. So he drinks mine.”
“Bullshit,” Luc says, making Maggie turn to frown at him. “Jean-Pierre told me he comes over for coffee every morning because you leave out a mug for him with a sticky note attached, and on it you’ve written an inspirational quote. He says he can’t think of a better way to start his day.”
“He did?” A tremulous smile flirts with her lips. Then she waves off the gesture as if it’s nothing. “Well, I just share whichever quote is on my calendar for that day.”
Oh, Maggie. Always acting as if her thoughtfulness amounts to nothing.
“Well, I don’t care why he was there,” I declare. “Next time I see him, I plan to kiss him on the mouth.”
Her smile widens. “He’ll like that. And speaking of Jean-Pierre… Luc, would you let him know I’m all right?” She glances down at her pajamas—even though I don’t get the whole Harry Potter thing, I can admit she looks ridiculously cute. “I don’t have my cell phone on me.”
“Already done,” he assures her. “I texted him as we were leaving the police station.”
“Good. Thank you.” She brushes a hand over her forehead and blows out a windy breath.
This day has already taken its toll. There are bags beneath her eyes and a chalkiness in her lips.
I’m struck by an idea… “What’s your work schedule like today?”
“I have the evening shift.” She frowns up at me. “Why?”
“What do you say to getting the hell out of Dodge? Let’s put this city and that asshat Sullivan behind us for a few hours.”
Her eyebrows twitch, indicating her intrigue. “What’d you have in mind?”
“We could knock off another excursion. Fort St. Philip?”
I don’t add that we need to get a move on if we’re going to hit everything on our list. If things keep going the way they have been, time could be running out.
Chapter Forty-nine
______________________________________
Luc
Dear Luc,
I took a drive to the swamp house today.
I don’t know why. Maybe the bayou was calling to me in its mystical and magical way. Maybe I was missing you. Or maybe I simply needed to get away.
Peering in through the back window, I saw all your stuff is still there. I guess your mom is going to keep the place. I’m not surprised considering your father’s mausoleum is there.
Anyway, I hope you don’t mind, but I took your pirogue out. It’s spring, and the dragonflies are flittering through the cattails, conn
ected to each other in that age-old dance of procreation.
Wow. That sounded poetic, huh?
I just impressed myself.
Or maybe you rubbed off on me.
That’s a nice thought, isn’t it? That I’m keeping a little of you with me and maybe you’re keeping a little of me with you?
In any case, I tied up to a tree with red lichen clinging to its side. Then I lay in the bottom of the boat and closed my eyes so I could listen to the chorus of bugs and bullfrogs.
I must’ve dozed off. The next time I opened my eyes, the sun was setting and the air around me had turned cool.
On the drive home, I realized I felt closer to you today than I have since you left. Maybe I’ll go back again soon.
Forever and always, Maggie May
When you spend most of your life outdoors, you can smell a storm brewing. It’s like it’s written in the air with invisible ink that your nose somehow knows how to decipher.
“We’re in for some weather,” I say as I pole my pirogue past a clump of knobby cypress knees.
“What?” Maggie glances up through the canopy to the clear blue sky. She’s sitting in the middle of the pirogue, Yard perched in her lap. Her brow wrinkles. “Are you sure?”
“Storm won’t hit today.” I squint toward the south. “But she’s out there somewhere. And she’s building.”
Before heading out on our excursion, we stopped by Maggie’s apartment so she could change into a pair of jeans and a lightweight waterproof jacket. She didn’t bother with makeup, simply brushed her hair back into a ponytail and clipped Yard’s leash to his collar. (I think, after the morning she had, she needed the comfort of her faithful canine companion.) Then it was a quick stop by the swamp house to load up my pirogue.
The remains of Fort St. Philip sit on a small spit of land in Buras-Triumph, an unincorporated community in Plaquemines Parish. It’s about as close to the end of the Mississippi River Delta as you can get without floating into the gulf.
Volume Two: In Moonlight and Memories, #2 Page 14