Baton Rouge Bingo

by Greg Herren

  “It’s coming up here, on the left,” I finally said as we went around the last curve I remembered, and sure enough, just ahead was the driveway—but this time there was a chain stretched across it from two metal poles that had been driven into the ground on either side. Frank turned into the driveway and stopped just outside the chain.

  “Let me check it out,” I said, opening my car door and climbing out. I walked over to the chain, which hung loosely between the two poles. It had been looped around both, and the ends pulled together and attached with a shiny new silvery padlock. I rolled my eyes. The Tangipahoa Parish sheriff’s department meant well, but this was ridiculous. I shook my head at Frank as I walked over to one of the poles. I grasped the chain and with one swift yank was able to put it up and over the top. I took a big swing and tossed the chain to the other side of the driveway, where with a slinking sound it slid down into the ditch. I climbed back into the car. “I guess it was just for show,” I said as I fastened my seat belt again. “Do you think I should put it back up after we go in?”

  Frank thought for a moment before putting the car in drive. “I don’t think it much matters—I can’t imagine there’s much traffic out here, do you? And like you said, that chain’s not going to stop anyone else who wants in any more than it stopped us.”

  The Jag crept slowly forward along the narrow drive, and I found myself holding my breath with anticipation until we came out into the clearing where the cabin stood on its cinderblock columns.

  The same old rusty car was still sitting where it was when Mom and I had been here. Yellow crime scene tape fluttered around the door to the screen porch. I got a weird feeling as Frank put the car into neutral.

  “Pull the car around back, Frank,” I suggested. I didn’t know what the weird feeling was about, but the thought of leaving the Jaguar out in the open in front of the house just seemed wrong somehow.

  Frank didn’t argue with me, just put the car into gear. He drove even more slowly around the side of the cabin. When we reached the back corner of the cabin, I gasped in surprise. We’d not had time or reason to look behind the house the day Mom and I had found Veronica’s body, so I was seeing it for the first time. There was no grass, just dirt and a big silver propane tank. About ten yards beyond the cabin’s back door was a wide bayou, maybe six feet across, with a little pier jutting out a couple of yards. A rusty little fishing boat with an outboard motor was tied up to it.

  Frank pulled the Jag around so that the front faced the back door of the cabin, and turned the engine off. “Now what?” he said in a whisper, which made me smother a laugh.

  I got out of the car again and had to admit, it was weirdly quiet. I walked up the steps to the back door and tried to open it, but it was locked. I motioned for Frank to come with me and headed around for the front. I ignored the crime scene tape, opened the warped screen door, and stepped into the shaded porch. The body was gone, but the chalk outline of the body remained, and no one had bothered to clean up the blood. It had now dried, but there was a sickly sweet smell hanging in the air. I gagged and stepped across the porch as quickly as I could, hearing Frank’s footsteps behind me. The front door was closed, but when I turned the knob and pushed, it opened.

  The window unit was still running, so there was a blast of cold air as I stepped inside. I flipped on the light switch, and flinched at the bright light cast from the chandelier/ceiling fan, which was attached directly to the ceiling. The room smelled dank, and it looked like there was black mold on the walls in the corners near the ceiling. The walls had faux-wood paneling, and the floor was covered in old linoleum that in some places was curling up in the corners. A brown corduroy couch was pushed up against one wall, and the little coffee table in front of it was slanted to one side. A rusty coffee can sat on it, with cigarette butts floating in the murky water inside. I shook my head. It didn’t look like the sheriffs had bothered searching for evidence inside the house—no fingerprint dust anywhere, and they never clean up after themselves.

  I walked over to a door on the left wall, figuring it led into a bedroom, and was right. There was another window unit running there. The bed was old, the frame dark wood that looked like it had seen better days; it may have been new during the Eisenhower administration. But the bed wasn’t made, so I had to assume this was the room where Veronica had been sleeping. I walked over to the bed and looked at the nightstand. There was a half-empty plastic cup with water in it, and next to that, a pill bottle. I picked it up. Alprazolam .5 mg tablets, Veronica Porterie.

  I knew what alprazolam was—I’d had a prescription for it after Katrina.

  I whistled. I waved the bottle at Frank, who was standing in the doorway. “Veronica was taking Xanax,” I said. “I wonder how long she was taking it?”

  Frank shrugged. “Probably ever since they killed that security guard twenty years ago.”

  I opened the closet door. Three pairs of jeans and a floral print polyester dress were hanging there, and there was an open, empty suitcase on the floor. I checked the shelf, but there wasn’t anything there other than a pair of cheap faux-leather pumps. Frank was going through the chest of drawers, but there was nothing in it other than some socks, underwear, and T-shirts.

  After the bedroom, we walked back into the kitchen and back into the heat. There wasn’t a window unit in the kitchen—which didn’t make much sense to me; why wouldn’t you have an air conditioner in the room where you cooked? There was a pot on the stove with congealed spaghetti noodles floating in starchy water, and an opened jar of hardened spaghetti sauce on the counter. There was also some packaged hamburger in the sink, which had turned brown and smelled pretty bad.

  Hamburger?

  What kind of animal rights activist eats hamburger?

  “Frank—” I started to say, but cut myself off when I heard the sound of another car pulling up the driveway. Frank and I exchanged glances—we had technically disturbed a crime scene—and I hurried back through the kitchen and peered through the blinds on one of the living room windows. The car was a small, dark blue Nissan, and it stopped right next to the rusted old car. I gasped when the car door opened and a young woman got out.

  Hope Porterie.

  I’d never seen her outside of on television, and I was surprised at how small she seemed in person. She had white-blond hair that hung to her shoulders, her forehead covered with bangs. She was wearing a purple LSU T-shirt and a pair of white denim shorts. Her skin was tanned a golden brown and she couldn’t have been more than five feet tall. She was wearing Nikes, and a white canvas purse hung from her shoulder at her side.

  “What is she doing here?” Frank muttered. “Returning to the scene of the crime?”

  I didn’t bother to remind him that she was being hijacked by AFAR around the time her mother was being murdered. But it was weird. Fuck it, I decided, and walked out the front door.

  Startled, Hope reached for her purse when I opened the screen door. “Hi.” I smiled ingratiatingly at her. “We’ve never met, but you know my mother, Cecile Bradley? My brother Storm?”

  She relaxed a little bit, but I also noticed she didn’t let go of her purse—which was more than a little odd. “Hi,” she said hesitantly, forcing a smile.

  I walked down the steps, holding my hands up so she could see I wasn’t a threat. Mom had always taught me to do that in situations where I was somewhere alone with a woman who didn’t know me—to let her know I wouldn’t hurt her. I didn’t hear Frank behind me. “So, what are you doing here, Hope?”

  She licked her lower lip. “I—I, um…” She paused again, apparently not sure how to continue. Her eyebrows came together. “What are you doing here?”

  I’ve always found honesty to be the best policy, primarily because I’m a lousy liar when put on the spot. I sat down on the steps. “My father was kidnapped, Hope, on the same day your mother was murdered.” I spread my hands. “The only thing the kidnappers want is Huey Long’s deduct box.” In for a penny, in for a pound. “
Now, I’ve come across your great-grandfather’s diary—which is supposedly the key to where he hid the box for Huey. Did you know your mother sold the diary to a Houston millionaire over twenty years ago?” I reached into my shorts pocket and held up the little book. “He gave it to me a little while ago so I could try to find the box myself. But lo and behold, the page where Eugene Porterie tells where he hid the box is missing.” No need, I figured, to tell her I was able to read what was written on that page anyway.

  She bit her lower lip and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Yeah. I know. My mom told me all about it when she called me last week.” She took a deep breath. “She told me the deduct box was her insurance policy, but I really didn’t know what she meant.” A tear slid out of her right eye. “Does that make any sense to you?”

  I shook my head. “No, it really doesn’t.” I heard Frank’s phone’s ringtone—“Knowing Me Knowing You” by ABBA—going off behind me.

  “So, why did you get in touch with your mother after all those years?” I asked, moving forward until I was standing very close to her. “I can’t imagine your grandmother was too pleased about it.”

  “I was curious, was all,” Hope said with a slight shrug. “Wouldn’t you be?” She barked out a little laugh. “Your mom is great, you know. I always wondered what the deal with mine was…so I found out everything I could about her. My grandmother told me my mother never wanted to have anything to do with me, that she willingly gave up custody and never tried to see me.” She shook her head. “None of that was true, I found out by looking up the court records. It made me wonder what else wasn’t true. So I sent my mother an e-mail through the AFAR website. And she called me within two hours.” Her jaw set. “So my grandmother can go to hell. At least I got to meet her before—you know.” She choked up and wiped at her eyes with the heels of her hands.

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “Last weekend.” She sniffed. “I mean, I’d seen her a few times over the years—she always wanted me to go live with her, go to work with her and all, but AFAR—AFAR wasn’t for me. It was her cause, not mine, you know? I love animals—that’s why I majored in veterinary science, but I want to work for a zoo. I don’t see zoos as prisons. But she was always cool about it, which kind of surprised me. She called me this past weekend, wanted me to come out here and meet her. She always stayed here when she was in Louisiana.” Hope bit her lower lip. “My grandfather left this place to her—it’s hers. She really liked it here, said she felt closer to nature here than she did in a city.”

  “You didn’t know about her plans regarding Mike?”

  “Of course not!” She shook her head so hard I thought it might jar loose from her neck. “I still can’t believe she did that. She had to know the cops would figure out I was her daughter, and it wouldn’t look good for me.”

  I didn’t feel like pointing out to her that her mother might not have cared about that. I know I wouldn’t have wanted to hear it if it were my mother.

  “Anyway, so I came out here today because—” She paused and reached into her shorts pocket. “Mom gave me this when I came out here Sunday.” She held up a folded piece of yellowed paper with writing on it.

  The missing diary page.

  “May I see that?” I asked, my voice shaking a little bit. She nodded and handed it to me. I unfolded it, and sure enough, on the front side of the page was the writing I’d unencrypted in the diary itself.

  But there was writing on the other side.

  I cursed myself for being so stupid. It had never even crossed my mind there might also be writing on the other side of the page.

  Huey will know where I put the box because it is buried only ten paces toward the lake from where we always went to shoot ducks. We always went by ourselves, so no one else will know.

  Well, that wasn’t much help.

  I said so, out loud.

  “But I know where that is,” Hope replied.

  I stared at her as Frank came up beside me. “That was Taylor on the phone—Dad’s come home, some of Rev Harper’s men dropped him off at the Devil’s Weed. He’s talking to the police now—he was taken by state troopers, he thought he was under arrest.”

  Troy Dufresne.

  “Where is the place they shot ducks, Hope?” I tried to keep my voice calm and cool. Frank gave me a look, but I shook my head slightly to let him know not to say anything further.

  “I can show you,” Hope said, starting to walk off to the left of the cabin. “They never built a duck blind. My grandfather used to bring me out here when I was a little girl, when he went duck hunting.” She smiled, a little wistfully. “He told me it was the best place in all southwest Louisiana to shoot ducks and that his father used to bring him there when he was a little boy.” She shrugged. “I figured that was the same place his father would have brought Huey Long to hunt.”

  It made sense, and I started walking after her, with Frank at my side. We’d reached the side of the cabin when we heard a car coming up the drive. “Were you expecting someone else?” I asked, and Hope shook her head. “Let’s get out of sight.”

  “Inside the cabin,” Hope said, and we ran up the front steps and closed the front door behind us once we were inside. I peeked through the blinds in the now-dark living room and saw the battered old red Cavalier pull up and park right behind Hope’s car. Barney Fleming got out and leaned against the car, looked at his watch, and then started examining Hope’s car.

  “Is there anything in there that would identify you?” I whispered, glad we’d decided to park the Jag behind the house. Not, of course, that it wouldn’t be found by anyone walking around the cabin, but at least it was out of sight for anyone driving up.

  “My registration and insurance card are in the glove box,” Hope whispered back.

  Fortunately, though, she’d apparently locked the doors, because Fleming tried opening them to no avail.

  I could hear Frank mumbling into the phone and hoped that he was calling the cops—but not the Tangipahoa sheriff, that’s for sure.

  And I heard the sound of another car coming up the driveway. Moments later, a Tangipahoa sheriff’s car pulled up, parking next to Fleming’s battered Cavalier. Donnie Ray himself got out, and he and Fleming started talking. They were too far away for me to hear what they were saying, but the argument was getting heated.

  Until Donnie Ray pulled out his gun and shot Fleming twice in the chest.

  I slammed my hand over Hope’s mouth as she started to scream, and when Fleming looked over at the house, I worried for a moment that he’d heard her. But then he grabbed Fleming by the hands and dragged him to the edge of the swamp water. He shoved the body in, giving it a strong kick to push it away from the shoreline, and the body drifted out a little way before it tangled in some reeds. He stood there for a moment, his hands on his hips, and then the water started thrashing around as an alligator materialized and wrestled Fleming’s body through the reeds into deeper water.

  Had to give Donnie Ray some credit—that was one body that would probably be never found.

  “I called Venus and told her what was going on,” Frank whispered, turning his phone to vibrate and slipping it into his pocket. “I don’t know what she’s going to do, though—don’t the state police fall under Dufresne’s jurisdiction, too?”

  I shook my head. I honestly didn’t know—but even were it the case, I didn’t think every state cop was corrupt or willing to do something illegal.

  Of course, we’d just witnessed Donnie Ray murdering Barney Fleming.

  And that meant if he found out we were there, he’d have to kill us, too.

  We needed to get the hell out of there.

  “Ms. Porterie!” he suddenly yelled, walking toward the cabin. “You want to come out of there? I promise you, nothing’s going to happen to you! You know that Fleming killed your mama, right?”

  I felt Hope stiffen beside me, and she started to walk toward the door. I grabbed her, whispering fu
riously, “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “He doesn’t know you two are here,” she hissed back at me. “If I go out there, I can maybe distract him. Your car’s in back, right? Well, I’ll distract him and you two go get in your car and go for help.”

  “I’ve already called for help,” Frank replied.

  She shook off my hand and went out the front door.

  “Hello,” she called. “What are you doing on my property?”

  I gave Frank a little push. “You go for help, Frank. I’ll stay here and make sure he doesn’t hurt her.”

  Frank didn’t say a word, just handed me his gun. “Shoot the bastard if it comes to that.” And he was gone, not making a sound as he slipped through the rest of the house.

  I took the gun and made sure it was loaded, then eased the safety off. Hope still stood in the doorway right above the steps to the yard. Donnie Ray was walking slowly toward her.

  “You say that man killed my mother?” Hope asked, defiance in her tone. “How do I know that for sure?”

  “I was here,” Donnie Ray replied casually. “She had something we wanted, and when she wouldn’t give it to us, he shot her.” He sounded convincing, almost reasonable—if it weren’t for the fact I’d seen him shoot Barney in cold blood just minutes before and then feed his corpse to an alligator. “Turned out she didn’t have what we were looking for after all. I’m real sorry about your mama.”

  “You mean the diary page?” she said, and I realized she’d taken it back from me after I’d read it.

  He was practically salivating. “Do you have it?”

  She held it out in front of her, beckoning him to come forward as the sound of another car coming up the driveway made them both turn to look. It was a black Lincoln town car, and it stopped without coming into the front yard of the cabin. The windows were tinted so I couldn’t see inside.