Volume Two: In Moonlight and Memories, #2

by Julie Ann Walker

  As we approach the grounds of the fort, Cash’s eyebrows bob upward. “Guess I didn’t realize how difficult it’d be to get here.”

  “Why did you put this place on the list?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Read somewhere it’ll probably disappear after the next big storm. Most of it has already been reclaimed by the water and the sediment. Suppose I wanted to see what was left before it goes. Plus, I like the idea that if the three of us see it, then even if it does disappear, it won’t actually be gone. It’ll live on in our memories.”

  “That’s pretty introspective for you, isn’t it?”

  “What can I say?” He spreads his arms wide. “I’ve become an introspective guy.”

  Positioning the nose of the pirogue at a ninety-degree angle with the bank, I dig my pole into the soft sediment below the water until it finds purchase. The muscles in my shoulders rejoice at the familiar exercise as I push off and the canoe darts up the bank, wedging itself atop the spongy soil.

  “Touchdown,” I announce. “Everyone outta the boat.”

  After clambering from the pirogue, Maggie sets Yard on the ground. The mutt immediately plants his nose in the dirt, filling his snout with new and exciting smells, his back end swinging side to side in doggy elation.

  I grab my jacket from the bottom of the canoe. It’s a cool day, and as the damp air mixes with the smell of muddy water, the three of us set off to see what we can see.

  The first thing we stumble upon are the rusting and rotting remains of an old tractor. All that’s left are its metal parts. And the weeds are threatening to overtake those.

  “Who’d need a tractor way out here?” Maggie wrinkles her nose.

  “Probably those cult people.” Cash walks over to inspect the steel carcass.

  “Who?” Maggie and I ask in unison after sharing a concerned glance.

  “Yeah.” He nods. “From what I read, the fort had been abandoned for years when a spiritual community called Vela-Ashby set up a commune here.” He gestures around at the high grass, cattails, and kudzu. (The latter, a non-native species from Asia, is the South’s greatest lament.) “But no one really knows anything about who they were or what they were doing. And after their leader committed suicide, the group scattered to the four winds.”

  Maggie looks around the overgrown area with wide, unblinking eyes. “He committed suicide here?” She points to the ground beneath her feet.

  Cash nods, a devilish glint entering his eyes. “Some say his ghost still walks these ruins.”

  She glances behind her when there’s a rustling in the underbrush that causes Yard to stop sniffing and stand at cock-eared attention. All the color drains from her face.

  “I’m pulling your leg.” Cash chuckles. “About the ghost, I mean. All the other stuff is true.”

  She scowls at him. But then her expression turns contemplative. “I wonder what happened to drive him to it?”

  “Who knows?” Cash shrugs. “Maybe he didn’t care for the position of cult leader. Maybe he got tired of people worshiping him, and the only way he saw to end it all was to end himself. Or maybe he had a terminal illness and wanted to snuff out his own light before pain and disease could do it for him.”

  “Why is it that lately our conversations have started taking these god-awful dark turns?” I demand.

  He only stares at me, and I’m aware of the fevered look in his eyes as he takes a quick drink from his flask.

  A muscle ticks in my jaw as I remind him, “You’re not terminally ill.”

  Maggie swallows as realization dawns. “The pain in your head isn’t making you think about—”

  “For the love of Saint Roch.” He waves her off. “No.”

  I narrow my eyes. “I notice you’ve been invoking him a lot recently.”

  “Invoking who?”

  “Saint Roch.”

  He rolls his eyes. “That’s just me goofing around.”

  It’s obvious Maggie isn’t buying his explanation when she clears her throat and hesitantly asks, “Were you able to get your records to Dr. Stevens on Monday?”

  He lets his head fall back on his neck. “Yes. I had the VA forward them along.”

  She doesn’t let his exasperation get to her. “Good.” She dips her chin forcefully. Then, “Luc’s right. This conversation has taken a dark turn. And I thought we came out here to forget about life for a while. Come on.” She waves us forward, a skip in her step now that she knows the neurosurgeon is in possession of Cash’s medical records.

  She’s convinced herself this Dr. Stevens will be able to help. I don’t share her optimism. But for her sake (and Cash’s), I hope she’s right.

  For the next hour, we investigate the remains of the crumbling stronghold, picking our way through brick-and-mortar walls, turning on our phones to shine some light inside dark and musty-smelling rooms, and trying to avoid the wildlife that has made the place home.

  Cash was right about two things. One, the fort won’t last much longer. And two, it was totally worth the trip to see it before it goes.

  Walking through the ruins, I can feel the solemnity of the place. The ground is rich in history, in the bones and the blood of those who’ve come before us. And my imagination takes flight as I envision how it must’ve looked when it was crawling with soldiers.

  Snippets of blank verse and a few rhyming couplets whisper through my head as a poem takes on a nebulous shape.

  After we’ve walked over every inch of the grounds, we sit on a set of stone steps and look out over the crumbling masonry. Maggie unclips Yard’s leash and allows him to follow his nose, whistling to bring him back in when he ranges too far.

  She picks three long strands of grass and begins twisting them into a tight braid. For a while, we enjoy the rolling, happy sounds of running water and the kiss of the fresh breeze against our cheeks. Then Maggie says, “If you had to pick one memory as your all-time favorite, which would it be?”

  “Easy,” Cash says. “That day at the swamp house Luc memorialized with the pictures we put in the time capsule. No cares. No considerations. Just my best friend and my best girl, a cooler full of sodas and bologna sandwiches, and a future that seemed bright and full of promise.”

  I don’t like the way he talks about a bright future as if it’s a thing of the past.

  “Mmm.” Maggie nods. “That is a good one. I think mine is the time you climbed to the top of that ancient oak tree in Audubon Park so you could see over the wall into the zoo. You wanted to catch a glimpse of the giraffes. You remember?”

  A line forms between Cash’s eyebrows. “I remember getting stuck up there after the branch below me broke. Luc had to run back to Smurf to get a rope. It took both of you half an hour to get me out of that tree.”

  “I know.” She grins. “For a while, I thought we were going to have to call in the fire department and have them come rescue you like a treed cat.”

  “Why’s that your favorite memory?” he demands. “You like it when I’m humiliated?”

  Her smile falters. “No. I like it that when the three of us work together, anything is possible.”

  That seems to mollify him. He nods and watches Yard sniff a clump of grass at the edge of the clearing, whiplike tail stirring the air.

  “And then afterward,” Maggie adds, “we spent the afternoon tossing a Frisbee and eating ice cream cones. It was one of those carefree days you only get when you’re a kid.” She turns to me. “How about you? What’s your favorite memory.”

  “Not sure.” I lift one shoulder. “What’s the definition of favorite?”

  “Oh, here we go.” Cash releases a long-suffering sigh. “He’s started speaking Bill Clintonese. Watch out, Maggie. You’ll spend the next twenty minutes arguing semantics.”

  “I’m serious. Is a favorite memory the one you think about most often? Is it the one that gives you the most joy? Or is it the one that’s clearest in your mind’s eye?”

  “How about we go with the one that gives you the
most joy,” Maggie suggests.

  Damn. That’s the one I’m not comfortable sharing.

  It was the day I got up the gumption to hold her hand in the library. I remember the queasy yet delicious feeling of knowing, in that moment, she was mine.

  “I reckon the night we snuck into Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop Bar and tried to order beers is a pretty good memory,” I say with a smile.

  She laughs. “I still don’t understand how that bartender knew we were underage.”

  “Uh, maybe because we were underage?” Cash offers.

  “Yeah.” She nods. “But that building is, like, what? Three hundred years old? It doesn’t have electricity, and it was dark that night. A new moon. I don’t think the bartender could see enough of us by candlelight to guess our ages. Besides, even if he could, at eighteen you looked twenty-five, Cash.”

  “Maybe the way you were hiding behind Cash’s back, trying to be invisible, tipped off the bartender,” I propose.

  She laughs and threads her arm through Cash’s. When she looks up at him, the love in her eyes is so bright and hot I’m seared by it.

  Will anyone ever burn for me the way she burns for him?

  The thought makes my heart ache, so I’m relieved by the distraction when Yard goes nuts somewhere beyond sight. His barks sound high and squirrely, the doggy equivalent of yelps of surprise, and my initial worry is…gator. Or water moccasin. So I’m stunned when Yard comes crashing through the underbrush with a big-ass black cow on his tail.

  The bovine stops in its tracks when it sees three humans jump to their feet. It snorts and shakes its head, its black horns flashing like onyx in the sun. And that’s when I realize…

  It’s not a cow.

  “What the fig is that?” Maggie squeaks as Yard runs up the steps to cower behind her legs.

  “Water buffalo,” Cash and I answer at the same time.

  “W-water buffalo?”

  “I read about this.” Cash nods. “Katrina blew down the fences on some wildlife preserves. A lot of the non-native species were never caught, and they’ve been roaming and procreating all these years.”

  The three of us don’t dare take our eyes off the horned beast. If I didn’t know it was an herbivore, I’d swear it was sizing us up for its next meal.

  “What should we do?” Maggie whispers.

  “Move away. Slowly,” I caution.

  Before she can clip the leash onto Yard’s collar, I bend and scoop the mutt into my arms. The last thing we need is him lunging or barking at the water buffalo and making the animal charge us.

  As a unit, we pick our way down the steps and across the clearing in the direction of the pirogue. By the time we make it to the trees, I’m ready to breathe a sigh of relief.

  “Let’s go home,” Maggie says, her voice shaky. “I don’t know about y’all, but I’ve had about all the excitement I can stand for one day.” She wrinkles her nose. “Although, I’m not sure we’re in for less drama once we’re back in the city.”

  Right. The reprieve was nice. But in the eternal words of Soul II Soul, it’s time to get back to life and reality.

  Chapter Fifty

  ______________________________________

  Cash

  Dear Cash,

  Aunt Bea took me on a campus tour of Tulane today.

  My favorite thing was the Mardi Gras Bead Tree on the Gibson Quad. It’s absolutely DRIPPING in colors. So the story goes, if a student throws a set of beads into the tree and they stick in the branches, the student is guaranteed to pass all their classes.

  Aunt Bea says she’d love for me to choose her alma mater, like Vee did. But I think the real reason she wants me to go there is because she’d like me to stick close to home.

  Honestly? I’d like that too.

  Does that mean something’s wrong with me? Most kids DREAM of going far away to college. It’s a rite of passage, the first step toward independence and adulthood.

  Why don’t I want that?

  I tell myself it’s because I already live in the coolest place on the planet. But truly, I think part of the reason I want to stay is because if I leave, I won’t be here if you come back.

  How pathetic does that make me? I feel like such a fool. Especially since going away to school would be the smart thing to do. For one thing, I wouldn’t have to turn a corner or walk down a street and run into something that reminds me of all the people I’ve lost here. For another thing, maybe if I was a thousand miles away, Sullivan would leave me well enough alone.

  But every time I think of going, I get a sick feeling in my stomach. So, I suppose I’ll stay. I’ll stay and try not to live on the hope that someday I’ll see you again.

  Love, Maggie

  We all have character defects; we are all works in progress.

  One of my character defects is the urge to shake Maggie’s cop friend, Rory Ketchum, until his teeth rattle inside his head. Especially when he tells us, “I don’t know of a single detective who’d open an investigation based on this evidence alone.” He points to my phone, open to the photos of Rick’s ledger.

  We’re sitting at his kitchen table, surrounded by the smells of Pledge furniture polish, Tide laundry detergent, and Crayola crayons. The fridge is covered in dozens of stick-figure drawings, and a case of unopened juice boxes sits on the counter. His wife and twin girls made themselves scarce after we arrived, taking a walk around the sleepy Bywater neighborhood. But their presence is still everywhere I look.

  A home. A wife. Cute kids. It’s enough to make me ache.

  “Why not?” I demand. “He’s extorting these people for money, and they’re important people. People who dictate policy for this city. Does anyone want them compromised by a sleazy businessman from Jersey?”

  “No. But every cop in the department knows Richard Armstrong and George Sullivan are as thick as hair on a dog. None of them will be willing to suffer the superintendent’s wrath or risk their careers by going after your dad.”

  My lips curl in disgust. “I prefer the term sperm donor.”

  Rory’s expression is sympathetic.

  “What if I told you our ultimate goal is to bring down Sullivan himself?” Maggie says.

  Rory’s eyes widen. “Seriously? Why?”

  “Because it’s time someone took out the trash in this city’s police department,” she declares.

  Rory cocks his head, studying her. I can tell he wants to ask more questions, but isn’t sure he should—ignorance is bliss, after all. He probably wonders if Miss Bea is one of Sullivan’s victims and that’s why Maggie is going after the superintendent.

  “We figure if we can get someone to start an investigation into Rick and the blackmail,” she continues, “they’ll find evidence Sullivan is involved in the schemes too.”

  “I’m telling you,” Rory insists, “you won’t find any joy with the NOLA Police Department.”

  When I grumble my displeasure, he lifts a finger. “But, you could go to the district attorney. He’d be very interested in any proof that the bigwigs of this city are being blackmailed to keep the police superintendent in a position of power.”

  I exchange a glance first with Luc, then with Maggie.

  Could it be that simple?

  “Please tell me you know the DA and will vouch for us,” Luc says. “If we walk in off the street and start spouting these kinds of accusations, he’s liable to think the three of us are nuts.”

  “I’d say I know Leon Broussard pretty well.” Rory smiles. “He’s been my father’s best friend since sixth grade and has been like an honorary uncle to me my whole life. He’s at a fund-raiser for Children’s Hospital tonight, but I’d be happy to give him a call first thing tomorrow morning and set something up.”

  “Oh, Rory!” Maggie grabs his hand. “If Jackie wouldn’t skin me alive for it, I’d kiss you smack on your face.”

  He leans her way. “My wife doesn’t need to know.”

  She giggles and plants a loud kiss on his cheek.
>
  After straightening, he winks at her. Then his expression contorts into a grimace. “Fair warning, Leon’s busier than a cat covering crap on a marble floor these days. It’ll likely be next week before he’ll have time to see y’all.”

  Luc blows out a breath. “Probably for the best anyway. By then we should know what’s what with this storm.”

  Luc has this weird sixth sense when it comes to Mother Nature. At Fort St. Philip, he said we were in for bad weather. Sure enough, we turned on the radio on the ride home to hear the National Weather Service announce that a tropical depression had formed off the island of Cuba and was heading west into the Gulf. By this morning, meteorologists were predicting it would strengthen into a tropical storm.

  “I heard it’ll probably make landfall in north Texas,” Rory says. “And I hate to wish ill on our neighbors to the west, but I can’t help thinking better them than us.”

  For a couple of seconds, no one says anything. And then, in typical Southern fashion, Maggie dons her mask of congeniality and asks to see pictures of Rory’s vacation. By the time he gets out his phone, his wife and daughters have returned, and for the next hour, I’m surrounded by the affable chitchat of people who’ve mastered the art of separating work from pleasure.

  Under normal circumstances, I’d appreciate the easy topics and the high, sweet giggles of the two adorable girls. But I’m preoccupied by two things. One, the pain in my head has reached epic proportions since I left my flask at home—figured it wasn’t the thing to bring to a police officer’s house. And two, Maggie’s hand is on my knee beneath the table.

  Chapter Fifty-one

  ______________________________________

  Maggie

  Nothing grows without a little rain.

  That’s what Auntie June says when a storm blows through. It’s her way of putting a pretty face on the precariousness of our position here so close to the Gulf of Mexico.

  The meteorologists’ predictions turned out to be correct—the gale never strengthened into a full-force hurricane, but it is officially a tropical storm. They’ve named him Nestor.