by Tami Hoag
“I guess it’ll be a vigil for Nora, too, now,” she said sadly. “I haven’t heard any good news; have you?”
“No, I’m sad to say,” Annie said on a sigh as she took a seat on the step below her friend. “Unfortunately, good news is seldom my business.”
“I don’t know how you stand it, Annie. I’m sick one minute and crying the next. If I manage for a second to stop thinking about somebody killing that poor little boy, my head is filled with what could be happening to Nora Florette at the hands of some maniac. The world is an evil place.”
“True dat,” Annie said. “It’s also a place where people give money to GoFundMe campaigns for someone they’ve never met or barely know and take time off work to beat the bushes in search of a child not their own. You have to hang on to that.”
“I suppose so,” Jaime conceded. She looked out across the expanse of the park. “You should have seen this place a couple of hours ago. Hundreds of people came out. Young, old, kids from the junior high school on their study hall breaks. A lot of them moved on to other search locations after they were done here.”
“Did you happen to see Dean Florette, by any chance?”
“No.” She gave Annie a look. “Please don’t tell me he’s missing, too.”
“I saw him this morning at the house, but he’s gone now. I need to ask him some questions about that day.”
“Maybe he’s at one of the other searches,” Jaime suggested. “I did see that other boy—that redheaded boy who was out here yesterday with Lola and Dean.”
“Cameron Spicer?”
“Is that his name? Spicer? Oh!” she exclaimed as realization dawned. “Is his mother Sharon Spicer?”
“Do you know her?”
“No, not really, but she introduced herself to everyone at the last PTA meeting. She’s engaged to the sheriff. She made sure everyone knew that.” Her mouth curved into a brief, small frown. “That sounded unkind. She volunteered straightaway for two committees. It’s women like her that keep these organizations running like Swiss trains.”
Women like her. The always-put-together, terribly efficient, frighteningly organized women who ran Bayou Breaux society, from bake sales to Mardi Gras charity balls. No one ever imagined their lives might not be perfect.
“I want to walk the route those kids took home that day,” Annie said, getting to her feet again. “Do you have time to walk with me?”
“Sure.”
They fell in step, headed across the grass for the paved path.
“Is it true Genevieve murdered a baby when she was younger?” Jaime asked.
“I’d like to know who leaked that bit of information,” Annie muttered. “She claims the baby just died. The coroner says that the baby was suffocated. She did time for it in Ware up in Coushatta.”
“Oh, my . . . It’s not the first time I’ve heard a story like that, working with CASA. A teenage mom with no support gets overwhelmed by her situation . . . So sad. And here she is, years later—”
“—a young mother with no support,” Annie said, “overwhelmed by her situation . . .”
Jaime gave her a long, serious look. “You think she killed him?”
“It’s not my job to draw conclusions. I just collect the facts.
“Genevieve told me that KJ was wound up that night,” she said. “She said he kept repeating I won’t tell, I won’t tell over and over. Do you have any idea what that might be about? Did anything happen in school that day?”
“No. It was a normal school day. He was fine.”
“You know the Florettes. Do you think Dean could have done something to Nora?” Annie asked, watching her friend from the corner of her eye.
She would want to say no, Annie knew, because Jaime wanted to think the best of all children. But she hesitated to answer, and worry creased her forehead.
“I can’t say no,” she admitted grimly. “Do you think he might have hurt Nora, and KJ saw him?”
“I have to consider the possibility.”
“But you can’t think Dean killed him!”
Annie said nothing for a moment, just letting the possibilities hang in the air. Finally, she said, “You’ve worked in the juvenile court system how long?”
“Long enough to know better,” Jaime admitted. “This story isn’t going to end well, is it?”
“No matter what, the best we can hope for is justice.”
They walked in silence for a moment. Annie scanned the path and the woods on either side, imagining the kids walking home that day, as they did every day. Nothing would have seemed remarkable. No one ever got up in the morning thinking their life would change dramatically before the day was out—especially not children. They lived in the moment, never thinking the moment could end abruptly and permanently.
Jaime had stopped on the path. Annie looked back to find her staring off to the right, into the woods, frowning.
“What is it?” Annie asked, thinking it couldn’t have been anything. By Jaime’s own accounting, hundreds of people had walked every inch of this park just a few hours prior.
“I’m not sure,” Jaime said, heading cautiously toward the trees. “I thought I saw something.”
Annie followed, a sick sense of anticipation building in her chest. Could this be the one spot the searchers had missed? Had someone looked right in the split second they needed to look left? Was it possible Nora Florette had been lying here the whole time, within a few feet of the many people who walked on this path every day?
Enough of the afternoon was gone that the light under the thick canopy of the trees was like twilight, dim and diffuse, like the light in a dream. Jaime picked her way through the fallen leaves, going toward something Annie had yet to see.
And then she stopped, and her scream split the thick, still air like a knife.
* * *
* * *
“CAMERON?” SHARON CALLED as she entered the house from the garage.
She stopped in her immaculate laundry room to unload the detergent from her grocery bag, puzzling again over how quickly they had gone through the last bottle. She was going to have to talk to her son about doing his own laundry. As busy as she was with all the committee work she had taken on, she was grateful Cameron was taking responsibility for his own things, but it seemed he had to be washing one item at a time instead of waiting until he had a proper load to run the machine.
Children. They didn’t realize the value of anything because they hadn’t had to earn the money to pay for it. She would have to make sure he understood not to be wasteful before he went to spend time with her parents. She couldn’t have him be a burden on them.
Her father would be reluctant to say yes to this idea anyway. He was a stern man who believed a person should stand on his or her own two feet and that once you made your bed, you had to lie in it.
Sharon was dreading making the phone call. All day she had gone around and around in her head as to what she was going to say. How could she spin it in a positive light? She would have to somewhat explain the situation to her mother. She would tell her Cameron was having trouble adjusting to the new school. She would say that, what with making the wedding plans and all, and getting established in the community, she was overburdened. And with all of Kelvin’s responsibilities with these recent crimes, now was not the time for him to take on the added responsibility of establishing himself as a father to a teenage boy.
She had just outright lied to the junior high principal, telling him she had a serious female health issue to deal with in the coming months, and it would be best for Cameron to go spend that time with his grandparents. She would tell the principal at Cameron’s old school in Houma the same thing.
“Cameron?” she called again as she went into the kitchen and placed the grocery bag on the counter.
It was unwieldy, trying to unload and put away groceries using on
ly one arm, and her other hand hurt from striking Detective Broussard. Now, hours after the fact, the memory of that seemed unreal, like something from a bad dream. But the redness and swelling on her right hand gave lie to the theory of a dream. And every time she admitted that, waves of shame and fear rolled through her.
To have someone think that Kelvin had abused her brought a crushing sense of embarrassment. Wondering what the detective would do with that suspicion made her sick with anxiety. And what would Kelvin do if he found out about Detective Broussard’s visit that morning?
“Cameron?” she called again, her anxiety rising.
Cameron could have been helping her. Instead, he was in the family room watching television. She could hear the TV mumbling away. Irritated, she wiped her hands on a dish towel and started toward the front of the house. He wasn’t supposed to be watching television this time of day. She had expected him to stay in his room, reading, if he wasn’t going to go to school.
Ready to snap at him, she poked her head into the family room, expecting to see him on the sofa, but he wasn’t there. So irresponsible, leaving the television on! She really was going to have to sit him down and talk to him about courtesy and respect.
She turned around and marched down the hall toward his bedroom, glancing out the side door as she went to make sure he wasn’t out by the pool.
“Cameron Spicer, you answer me this minute!” she demanded, banging on his door.
He didn’t answer.
“I’m coming in!” she shouted, her temper ready to boil over.
She opened the door and burst into the room, drawing breath to light into him.
The room was empty. The bed was neatly made.
He had written on the mirror above his dresser in marker: I DON’T WANT TO BE HERE!!!
* * *
* * *
ANNIE SAW THE shoe first. The sole of a sneaker sticking out from under a pile of brush.
Jaime had stopped dead in her tracks. She turned and looked at Annie, her face a pale mask of horror.
Yanking her phone off her belt as she went, Annie ran. She fumbled to punch 911 with one hand even as she tried to clear the brush and leaves and limbs away with her other hand.
“Partout Parish Emergency Services—”
“This is Detective Broussard with the Sheriff’s Office. I need an ambulance ASAP to Lafayette Park. I have an individual down and unresponsive, located in the woods about halfway down the main walking path. Tell them to hurry!”
She didn’t wait for a response, shoving the phone back onto her belt so she could use both hands to uncover the victim. Heart racing, she tried to sort the information she was taking in through her eyes at the same time another part of her brain was asking questions. Was it Nora? How long had she been here? Could she still be alive?
“Oh, my God!” Jaime cried, rushing up. “Is it Nora?”
“It’s a boy,” Annie said.
A boy’s shoes, sweatpants smeared with dirt, hands battered from a fight.
As she uncovered the face, Jaime screamed again and ran backward, doubled over as if in pain.
The image hit Annie like a hammer to the head, stunning her. Her knees went weak and her head swam.
There was no face. There was blood and tissue, shards of bone and lumps of brain matter. And resting in the center of the mass was a jagged rock the size of a brick.
Annie sank to the ground on her knees and sat back on her heels, drenched in sweat yet cold and trembling. Thinking, as a siren wailed in the distance, that there was no need. There was no hurry. Someone’s child would not be going home tonight, and she didn’t even know whose.
* * *
* * *
I DON’T WANT TO BE HERE!!!
Sharon stared at the writing, trying to muster some anger toward Cameron for writing on the mirror. That emotion would have felt better than the feeling that was stirring inside her. She recognized it as fear and tried to talk herself out of it, scolding herself for being ridiculous.
Of course Cameron was here. She simply hadn’t found him yet. He was probably on the patio and she just hadn’t seen him. But her heart was beating a little faster as she left his bedroom and let herself out the patio door.
The air was still and thick. The sky was a strange color to the south, like a yellow-tinged bruise stacked with mountainous clouds. There had been talk all day of a storm coming. She rushed to dismiss the oddly fanciful notion that she could feel the storm building in her chest. It wasn’t like her to be so dramatic.
“Cameron!” she called, looking left and right.
No answer. There seemed to be no sound at all. No distant sounds of traffic or of the neighbors’ children. No birdsong or rustling of the marsh grass that grew along the bank down by the boat dock.
“Cameron!”
The silence pressed in on her eardrums like cotton wool until she could hear her own pulse—whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh . . .
Maybe he had gone to a friend’s house—
He didn’t have any friends she could name.
She should call him—
Kelvin had taken his phone.
Fighting the growing sense of panic that swelled in the base of her throat, she went back inside and went to the family room to turn off the television. She had to think of what to do. She needed a plan. She would feel calmer if she had a plan.
Maybe he had walked to the Quik Pik.
Maybe he had gone to the public library since Kelvin had taken his iPad and he had no other way to get on the Internet. He wasn’t allowed to use her laptop, and he didn’t know any of the passwords even if he tried to use it behind her back.
As she walked into the family room, a sliver of light caught her attention from the corner of her eye, from the foyer. Someone had left the front door ajar.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Cameron!” she said out loud as she went to pull it shut. “How many times do I have to tell you to be sure to close the door?”
As she came back, she stopped short halfway across the family room and stared at the lovely flat-screen television that hung on the wall.
A local station was showing breaking news from a scene in Bayou Breaux. The Florette girl, Sharon thought. They must have found the Florette girl—exactly the way she had expected they would. Dead in the woods.
She spotted Detective Broussard with several other people on the far side of a ribbon of yellow crime scene tape.
And then her eyes focused on the Breaking News headline at the bottom of the screen—Body of Boy Found in Lafayette Park—and the bottom dropped out of her world.
FORTY-THREE
The scene was barely contained chaos. Nick blasted the horn, trying to scatter the people on foot as he drove across the park. He needed to get as near as possible to the perimeter of the crime scene. Dirty looks were shot in his direction, expressions changing instantly at the red-and-blue strobe light running on the dash of the Jeep.
The call-out for the ambulance had been picked up by the local news outlets on their scanners, and the reporters, already in town for the Nora Florette search, had instantly bolted for Lafayette Park—some of them no doubt getting there ahead of the deputies who had been dispatched. Camera trucks had parked helter-skelter in the open areas, satellite dishes raised to search the sky for a good signal.
Volunteers from the Florette search were rushing across the grass to join the small crowd already gathered at the edge of the woods. A lone deputy stood with his arms raised, trying to hold the mob at bay.
Nick blasted the horn again, narrowly missing a videographer who didn’t want to get out of his way. He slammed on the brakes as he rolled up on the deputy—a fresh-faced kid who looked overwhelmed by the crowd descending on him.
The shouting began before he could even open the door of the vehicle.
“Detective Fourcade! Detective
Fourcade!”
“Has the body been identified?”
“Is there a serial killer?”
“Is there a cause of death?”
Nick ignored them, his focus on the scene before him. Someone had managed to get a line of crime scene tape up between a couple of trees to hold off the onlookers. Some distance beyond it, he could see Annie standing with her arms wrapped around herself as if she was freezing. A few feet away, Jaime Blynn sat on a stump, sobbing.
He ducked under the tape, and as he neared the area, his attention went first to the body on the ground. Even in the fading light he could tell the death had been horrific, brutal. Violent well beyond what had been necessary to cause death, this had been a killer in a frenzy, filled with rage and unleashing every ounce of it on the victim. It was the same thought he had had standing over the body of KJ Gauthier.
He took in the sneakers, the dirty sweatpants. A boy, he thought, though in this light it wasn’t obvious.
“Mon Dieu,” he muttered on a long, sad sigh.
“Are you here in your official capacity, or just for moral support?” Annie asked, her voice shaky and thin.
“That depends on who you ask,” he said, turning toward her. She was as pale as milk and trembling visibly. “Are you all right?”
She shook her head, tears welling. “No. No, I’m not.”
“Come here,” he murmured, reaching for her.
“Nick, there are people—”
“Fuck ’em,” he said, drawing her close.
“I’m gonna lose it,” she warned, hanging on to him as if she might otherwise be sucked up into the universe.
“No, you’re not,” Nick told her. “Not here, not now. You’re gonna take a couple deep breaths and pull it together, ’cause that dead boy needs you, yeah?”
She took a step back, gripping his forearms hard as she sucked in a lungful of air and visibly worked to compose herself.
“Do you know who this is?” Nick asked.