“Do tell.”
"As a kid, I always wanted to do the right thing, which my parents thought was cute at first. I wanted to be the cop when playing. I tattled on classmates in elementary until I got beat up. I wanted to be on the side of good, kind of how kids know at an early age if they prefer boys or girls."
“An innate feeling.”
"I remember around ten or eleven watching some FBI show, and this badass female agent was doing her thing, and I couldn't take my eyes off her. I remember thinking that's me. That's what I want."
“And your family had no idea you were in the closet.”
“With the same trepidation of coming out.” She looked at her cell. “Listen, stay and finish your beer, but I gotta run. My folks are expecting me for supper, but I’m leaving tomorrow, so I’m not sure how this asking me out is going to work.”
“Would you have said yes?”
“If it was more convenient than this? Yes, I would say yes.” She started to leave but stopped. “Wow, you really did pick me up at a funeral.”
Chapter 6
Angel called Donald while stopped on the shoulder of the empty road. She wished Bluetooth could be installed in the Rock, along with GPS, lane assist, and a rearview camera. A headset had been utilized at one point, but it ended up in a trash can. She held her cell to her ear while her other arm stretched on top of the steering wheel.
“Yeah, I’m still persona non grata out here.”
Donald said, “Not too popular with John, either.”
“Still mad about my bird-finger?”
Laughter crackled from her phone. “You’re lucky you’re you.”
“I don’t have that opinion right now. Sometimes, I think I’d be so much happier if I’d joined the family business.”
“It’s normal to be conflicted.”
“It’s torturous, Don. I’m lost and where I need to be at the same time.” She clamped her mouth shut before he suggested speaking to a shrink.
“It’s good that you’re staying with your folks. Mend some fences. It’s a great start.”
“Yeah, yeah. Curb your enthusiasm. Oh, hold on to your toupee, you’ll love this. My Aunt Izzy - Sheriff Izzy - told me I’m in my Aunt Lorna’s will.”
“That’s perfect. We don’t have to manufacture a reason to go back. Use the suspension story. Act disgruntled towards us.”
“I’ll save that nugget until it’s meaningful to the conversation. They’ll see through anything disingenuous.”
“You know best.” Donald was probably pinky-fucking his ear while leaning back in his swivel chair. They had grown close enough to know each other's habits and how each other thought. He mumbled, "This isn't a toupee."
“You say so.”
“Everyone that marries into the Blondeaux clan takes the Blondeaux name, right?”
“Not exactly. Just the descendants of my grandmother. Everyone else hyphenates. My maw maw keeps a very extensive family tree in her office. I saw it as a kid but didn’t understand it.”
“Quite a gender role reversal, though. Can I ask how your dad sits with that?”
“I never questioned his taking the Blondeaux name until I was around ten. It was just something that was understood. Has nothing to do with masculinity. Blondeaux is the name to respect out here - the name to fear.”
The landscape came back to her as she continued to her parents’ house; not much had changed. Once out of the area loosely referred to as the Glue Trap, she entered downtown Lemon Twig, slowing to reminisce about childhood experiences. Main Street seemed to be an unburied time capsule, immune to the unyielding weather.
Her father’s hardware store anchored downtown. It made sense to branch out from his construction company. Moreau Parish had just over five-thousand people living within 400-plus square miles. Lemon Twig and Brockton were the two biggest cities. There were sporadic developments, a few rural, but her parent’s house was in one of the nicer scenic areas.
She arrived at her childhood home and sat in the driveway a while. It had a new roof and a paint job. The updated bushes and plants around the outside must've been from Lucy May's landscaping company. Just entering the front door was such a strange feeling. The more time she spent away, the more the house seemed like a museum.
Angel felt like an exchange student inside the home she grew up in, still holding her travel bag. She assessed the living room while her mom observed from the kitchen area. The furnishings were the same except for the new leather sofa. Next to each arm of the couch was an end table and recliner, creating a semi-circle facing the television.
A Roomba crossed the hardwood like a futuristic pet. Jeopardy played on the flat-screen hanging above the fireplace mantel. A portrait of Angel at ten years old kept watch from the television's left side, smiling wide with crooked teeth. It was the only thing out of place.
Angel repositioned her grip on the bag. “I’m going to put this in my room.”
Her mom moved to block the hallway. “Before you do, there’s something I need to tell you.”
“Is my room an armory now?”
Her mom’s face settled for the explanation. “After Doug’s murder, as you know, Bobby went into psychiatric care, but Lucy May refused to go back to that house. She needed a place to stay.”
“You let Lucy May stay in my room?” The slight against her was confusing.
"She always looked up to you, even though you’re the same age. The way you comforted her during Izzy's questioning and checked in on Bobby as he was finally diagnosed. Such a change in that young man – day and night. You may not have realized, but you imprinted on Lucy May like a duckling."
“Ducky. So, I imagine she went through my things?”
“You really didn’t leave much behind except some clothes. She moved in with Reverend Trevor just before Lorna’s death.”
“With Trevor? At twenty-nine? Couldn’t she get an apartment?”
“Lucy May isn’t ready to be alone.”
“She’s never been good at being alone.”
“Let’s not go into that now.”
"Sure." Angel put that comment into a box to deal with later. "So, can I sleep there, or is it a shrine?" She proceeded forward.
“Don’t be angry. It’ll always be your room. Whenever you want it again.”
Angel traversed the darkened hall. She dropped her overnight bag on the freshly made bed in an otherwise bland and lifeless room. Lucy May had lived with her parents for years, and the federal agent was none the wiser. She sat on the mattress and imagined her room when it had been adorned with posters and pictures taped to her mirror. Her uncluttered desk held no homework. Silly dance videos never went viral. They had no idea their daughter had given serious thought to suicide.
"It was a beautiful service." Her mom broke the silence, still wearing her dressy outfit.
Her dad hadn't arrived with the food, and they were alone in the living room. Sweet tea was placed on the beveled glass coffee table.
“Aunt Lorna didn’t want to be cremated.” Angel drank.
“She knew that would be ignored.”
“Why make the request, then?”
“One last rebellion. After Doug’s murder, Lorna started feeling the pressure – the power she was to have. She was getting quite odd.”
“Is that why she secretly saw a different lawyer for the will? It was like she predicted she’d be killed.”
“Overdose, dear,” Her mom corrected. “That new lawyer was a gigantic screw you to your maw maw.”
The video doorbell announced movement at the front door. Her dad entered with several bags of Crunchy's Chicken; the smell was immediate. He had changed from his suit to shorts and a tee.
It was hard to believe that her dad had brought her along on gun deals in her adolescent years. While on one encounter, he had shot a scary Cuban man in the leg when he could have killed him. Her father’s mercy stuck with her. She handled the shooting well externally; however, her dreams had grown darker and d
arker.
Her father had been tight-lipped about his role in the Blondeaux hierarchy. Angel assumed he was high up in the chain. Even though her family was outraged that she became an FBI agent, they never worried about the trouble she could bring as an FBI agent.
“In honor of our daughter’s visit, we eat like royalty.” He performed a full bow.
The side door slammed, rattling the windows. Angel knew who it was immediately, as this rendezvous was inevitable.
“There he is, like a bloodhound.” Her mom returned to the kitchen to make an extra tea.
Their neighbor Joe-Joe scooted to a spot on the sofa next to Angel. He had a boxer's face with a natural Elvis-like sneer that, when flared, exposed coffee-stained teeth. His crooked nose was a focal point. "Hi, Miss Mable. I just got home and saw Mr. Rob driving up with the Crunchy's."
“That’s why I got extra. Been feeding you since you were five. Why stop now?” Her father’s voice drawled, deep with the backwoods.
Joe-Joe’s parents had moved to Arkansas almost a decade earlier, and he’d been living in the same house alone ever since. He was just another layer of guilt to dig through.
“I’m sorry about your aunt, but I’m glad you’re visiting. Does this mean y’all are good?” He picked out a leg.
“I’m here. Take that as you will.” Angel selected a breast.
Her mom softened with Joe-Joe. “Family is family, no matter the disagreements.”
Joe-Joe ate like a praying mantis: arms roped with tight muscles. “We can all watch Netflix tonight.”
Angel countered, “I’m going out with Delilah tonight.”
Joe-Joe frowned with chicken in his mouth. “First time here in seven years, you’re leaving tomorrow, and you’re going out?”
“What I do is none of your business.” Angel peeled off the crispy skin. She noticed her mom and dad gave each other a look. “Fine. We can take a walk around the neighborhood later.”
“I’ll suppose I’ll take it. Lucy May and me shot the shit, but it wasn’t the same. All we did was talk about you.” Joe-Joe cleaned the bone.
“You hung out with Lucy May?” Angel asked.
He shrugged while chewing. “Saw each other enough. Right next door.”
Angel figured Joe-Joe’s version of that relationship wouldn’t be an accurate one. She diverted to the other news weighing her down. “So, Aunt Izzy told me something.”
“She talked to you?” Her father enjoyed his buttered biscuit.
“We had a nice conversation outside the funeral home. Apparently, Lucy May and I are the only ones named in Aunt Lorna’s new will.”
Rob’s eyes shot to Mable. “Is it valid?”
“It’s not a fake, Rob.” Her mom didn’t take the surprised route. “Izzy told me about it earlier.”
Joe-Joe asked, "What do you think she left you? The land?" He laughed but stopped when no one else joined in.
Her mom touched Angel’s knee. “Lorna liked you. She always had. It’s probably an expensive keepsake. Maybe that emerald ring she cherished.”
Angel nodded with hidden dread. "That'd be nice."
Chapter 7
The one streetlamp near the entrance of her parents’ property illuminated the pristine lawns along the road. Frogs croaked as insects occasionally bombarded Angel and Joe-Joe on their stroll. The pair meandered without regard for cars, as they had done hundreds of times as adolescents.
Joe-Joe stood a few inches taller, passing Angel in height at thirteen. At his current age of thirty, he carried himself like prison alpha, only without any betas. His short uncombed hair was receding, and a large pimple had sprouted on his forehead. His clothes hung loose, but his muscles flexed wherever they were exposed. She wondered how many new tattoos had been inked into his torso since she left.
Angel asked, “How are things at the funeral home? Still doing the cremations?”
“Yep.”
“Where you there today? Didn’t see you.”
“I was there, upstairs. The patronne had me babysit cage-boy. Make sure he didn’t make a scene. We just watched television.”
“Call him Bobby around me. He’s socially awkward, not violent or disruptive.”
He laughed out loud. “He’s a murderer.”
“It was self-defense. Funny that you were watching him. You’re strong, but Bobby could break you in half.”
“Shit, I’d fuck him up he tries something.” He pulled out a switchblade, spinning it for a second before putting it away. They stepped aside for a passing car. He spoke again after a few feet. “Your P’s are always talking about you moving back. They ain’t mad at you, you know.”
“It’s way past anger.” Angel looked back at the house of memories and nightmares. Her redneck repertoire included knowing the value of a trunkload of surplus M-16s, and she had felt a jawbone crack under the pressure of her knuckles in a late-night brawl. The punch left her hand swollen for a week. They had groomed her in the fine arts of laundering money, so the betrayal went deep.
Joe-Joe lifted his beer. “Nice evening for a walk,” he said over the crickets. “I miss this.”
“Did you take walks with Lucy May?”
“Sometimes.”
Angel hoped the beer would relax her, but it didn’t help. She planted her feet to face him. “J-J, why didn’t you move with your parents?”
“Arkansas? Shit. No thanks.”
“Are you dating anyone?”
“I date around.” He kept an open smile.
“Cousins?”
“Sometimes. Distant.”
Her face screwed up. “They raise us not to think that’s weird. It’s sick, man.”
“I Googled it. Only first cousins are bad.”
Long ago, during their hormonal years of curiosity and kisses, they had played doctor for lack of a better phrase, but that didn’t mean they were meant to be together. With all the aunts and uncles telling Joe-Joe how they were going to marry and have kids, how could she blame him?
“We’re not having this conversation again.”
“You’re still not married.”
“So what? That’s a choice. I see you as my friend, my damn third cousin, which, if you remember my reference ten seconds ago, is wrong. I love you, but not… physically.”
“You’re just against everything dealing with the family. If you loved a cousin, you’d rationalize it. You know you would. Your own parents were a match made by your maw maw. You aren’t meant to be in the FBI. You need to be here.”
“You see, J-J? That’s how much you don’t know me. I absolutely can’t be here.”
Joe-Joe kicked at nothing on the road. “The patronne thinks I’m the reason you left.”
“That’s bullshit. She’s smarter than that. Don’t play the sympathy card.”
“I’m not…”
“The family will respect you if you never mention me again. Spit on my name.”
“Nice.” He spun halfway around, taking a quick look at her. The bottle went to his mouth.
“If I got married and bore a litter, would you finally move past me?”
“Maybe I’d have him killed, or do it myself.” He held a grin.
Angel brushed by him to continue on. “Let’s just try to get along like we used to.”
“How does someone with a broken heart act normal?” He caught up to her.
“You’re in love with a plan, not me. You want to move up from being a peon at the funeral home? Grow a pair. Prove yourself to the family.” Had she just advocated for illegal activity?
“I’m already doing something real big.” He turned to her with hard eyes.
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“Sweetie, I can’t talk about family business, not while vertical anyway.”
Angel waited in front of him with her hips cocked. He’d eventually blab, she just had to wait him out. Instead, he lunged, wrapping his arms around her for a kiss.
She twisted out of his viselike grasp and shoved his sh
oulders. “Don’t ever do that again.” Her fingers adjusted her shirt and stomped around him. “It’s not going to happen.”
“Damn it!” Joe-Joe smashed his beer bottle on the street near a trash can.
She brought her hands up to her chest, ready for close-quarter combat if need be. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“You.” Instead of joining her in the middle of the road, he continued walking near the curb until his feet picked up a quicker pace. Angel almost reached for him but forced her hand down. Instead, she picked up the broken glass.
He disappeared into his empty house long before she made it to her own driveway.
Chapter 8
Two weeks later… New Orleans
The three-person team consisted of Donald Lester, Gail Ruby, and Angel. They commandeered the same glass-encased conference room at the New Orleans field office. John Belcher’s part was done, and that was okay with Angel. They each had a spiral-bound booklet which was the basic history of the Blondeaux clan.
Angel sat opposite Donald and Agent Gail Ruby. Each of them had an optimistic, if not naive, glow. Her own expression probably made them think she had cramps.
“What are we naming this dog?” Angel asked.
“We have approval for a group two operation named Blood Parish. We all good with that?” Don asked the room.
“Grim, but appropriate,” Angel said. “Group two? It’s going to stay small and intimate?”
“Don’t need a big team,” Ruby said. “John wasn’t far off from the parish being related to each other. Could be one-third by my estimation.”
“Since the mid-1800s,” Angel began, “the family started keeping records of the Blondeaux and Renard births and marriages. As the criminal enterprise grew, outsiders were weeded out, and arranged marriages happened more and more. Pairings were made with the most distant of cousins.”
“Are your parents…?” Ruby’s voice trailed.
Angel’s grin was slight. “Yes, third cousins.”
Blood Parish Page 3