Secrets & Lies

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Secrets & Lies Page 26

by Lauren Landish


  “Where's 'out here'? I see you've got a New Orleans number, but that could be a cell phone in Florida for all I know.”

  Carson hums, then comes back, a smile in his voice. “It's nowhere near that bad, Miss Andrea. We live in Paradis. It's a little spot in St. Charles Parish, just west of New Orleans. You know it?”

  “I've probably been through it once or twice,” I acknowledge. The outskirts of New Orleans are not areas I've been to a lot, other than my old home on the DeLaCoeur plantation. New Orleans itself has always had plenty to occupy me most of the time. Still, you get to know the area. “On the way to Houma, right?”

  “Yes, along Highway 90. Actually, our home is just off of the Old Spanish Trail that parallels the highway. Can I text you the address? It's easy to find that way.”

  I think quickly. Carson's story sounds believable, and I think from his voice he isn't lying to me. “Just a moment, let me check my schedule,” I say, hitting the mute button on my phone. I look at Katrina. “Guys?”

  “He sounds like he's telling the truth,” Katrina says, then looks over at Nathan. “Your opinion, Nathan?”

  “Trust, but verify. Richard Nixon,” Nathan says with a wink. “He says he knows you are busy. He probably knows that you are a graduate student as well. Today is Wednesday. What about Saturday? That gives me some time to check this story out, and fits with your class schedule, right?”

  I nod, and unmute the phone. “Okay Carson, what about Saturday morning? I've got a pretty busy schedule until then. And would you mind if I brought my brother along? Assuming I can track him down, that is.”

  Jackson looks surprised, but nods in agreement, flashing me a thumbs up sign. Carson, on his end, sounds happy. “Andrea, if you can do that, it would be tremendously helpful. Okay, I'll text you our address right now, and you can send me a time to expect you. Thank you so much.”

  “Thank you, Carson. Good evening.”

  “Good evening, Andrea.”

  Carson hangs up, and about thirty seconds later, I get a text message from Carson's number with a street address and maps link, along with a quick note that merely says Thanks again.

  I set my phone aside for the moment and look around the room at my family. “Well?”

  Jackson speaks up first, his normal playfulness replaced with the maturity that I've seen grow in him since Katrina came back into our lives. “Trust, but verify. Sounds like good advice. Not that Carson didn't sound sincere, but you never know. Nathan, you said that Peter is out for blood. What exactly did he say? You never really told us.”

  “I only wanted to have to tell it one time,” Nathan says in a low voice. On the couch, baby Andrea stirs, rolling and fussing a bit. Nathan is immediately on the defensive, checking on her with his eyes before continuing. It's cute, although I'm not sure that word really applies to the former Green Beret's scarred face. It's too bad he's never had kids, he'd make a great father. “Is she okay?”

  Jackson unwraps Andrea from her bundle and checks, sniffing carefully. “Nope. Wet. That's okay, I can change her in about three seconds. Bag's downstairs though.”

  “I'll get it,” Katrina says, getting up from her seat at the table. “You two need to hear this more than I do. I know Peter's out for my head, but that's nothing new. Details about how he wants to do it are pretty minor, and I can get those quickly enough later.”

  Katrina dashes out of my apartment and comes back less than two minutes later, a black duffle bag slung over her shoulder. “Doubles as a gym bag when we need to,” she explains as she scoops Andrea up when I give it a look. “Uh, where's your bedroom?”

  “Two feet to the right of where Nathan's sitting,” I say, pointing at the hideaway bed. “Couch is the best spot for her right now. Don't sweat it if it gets a bit of pee on it, it's old.”

  Katrina nods gratefully and takes the bag over, where I watch as she and Jackson work in almost perfect sync in cleaning and rediapering Andrea before buttoning her back up. “Mind if I breastfeed her?”

  “Not at all. I've seen breasts before, normally mine, but hey, we're adults,” I say, Katrina smirking at the little joke in there.

  “Glad to see you're not so rattled as to lose your ability to be a wiseass,” Katrina says as she lifts her top and gives Andrea her left breast. “I missed that.”

  “You have it all the time online,” I remind her, “but real life is better. So Nathan, you think you can check these guys out?”

  “Of course,” Nathan says. “In the meantime, may I recommend something? Carson said that his mother's name was Janice. Why not do a search for Janice Sands and suicide or mysterious death? I am sure that with all the computer skills in this room you can find something.”

  Computer skills is an understatement, but he's not really referring to me. In my past life I focused mostly on trying to break into Peter's home computer and using whatever opportunities laziness or an open desktop would get me, but Katrina's a top-flight hacker. Find something? She can probably find out the name of Janice Sands' former first grade teacher, plus her social security number if you give her enough time.

  Jackson isn't a hacker, but he's got a good head on his shoulders, now that he's actually using it for more than partying. He nods at Nathan's suggestion. “That's a good idea. And now, the details on what Peter told you, Nathan?”

  Nathan nods, then takes a deep breath. “He first contacted me about a month ago, soon after I got back in the area. After Peter contacted me I went upstate and talked with him. He has lost most of his business contacts, but he has a few that are still loyal. Perhaps most disturbingly are the Russian mob. Those guys do not care one whit about Peter's money, but he helped them get into New Orleans, and they repay loyalty with loyalty.”

  “What did these contacts tell him?” I ask, and Nathan shrugs.

  “Thankfully, not as much as I feared. Peter pieced some things together and figured out that you are still alive, Katrina, and that you and Jackson are together. He also figured out that Andrea, you were the one to clear out his personal safe along with his account in the Bahamas. He does not know how much you three worked together, but he still wants all of you dead.”

  “And he didn't suspect you?” Jackson asks, surprised. “How?”

  “When I told him about you watching Katrina die in Miami, he thought that I had been with you the entire time. He never knew I had gone to Savannah instead while you and Katrina were in Miami tracking down Samuel and Theresa Grammercy. Since I told him I hightailed it out of Miami after that, he never quite put it all together. When he questioned me about it some more, I told him that I had split up from Jackson to try and canvass the city. I let him draw his own conclusions. Thanks to the twenty misguided, but loyal years I spent by his side, he thinks I am still with him.”

  Jackson hums thoughtfully, while Katrina finishes nursing her daughter and tugs her top down, holding the sleeping baby. I'm struck by how strangely normal this all feels, especially considering what we're talking about. I walk over and sit down in front of everyone on the floor, leveling my gaze on Nathan. “So what exactly have you been up to the past year, anyhow? You said you were balancing some debts. Want to give any details?”

  Nathan considers for a moment, then shakes his head. “No. It is not that I don't think you deserve the story, but this is not the time. Just believe me when I say that I will protect you and your family with my life if need be. I hope it does not come to that, but I will do it if need be.”

  I glance at Katrina, who nods. “I trust him, Andrea. A little, at least.”

  I relax some, and give them a smile. Katrina is very careful with her trust, and if she says she still trusts Nathan, I guess I do, too. “So Nathan, I know you whooped up on Jackson. Have you and Katrina had a chance to have a throwdown yet?”

  Nathan glances at Katrina, and both of them smile. It's not a friendly smile, but it's not a hateful one either. It's two warriors, both confident in their skills, anticipating a new challenge. “Not yet. I'm looking
forward to it, though.”

  “Me too.”

  Jackson groans and shakes his head. “I'm not. Too many injuries.”

  Chapter 4

  Carson

  After holding Melissa through the night, dozing on and off in between her nightmares, I'm way too tired to go into the city today. I decide to just call the gallery manager instead. The morning sunlight is streaming warm and beautiful into our kitchen, and Melissa's showering while I dial.

  “MCS Galleries, how can we help you?” my manager Robert greets in his perfectly polite voice. He's been with me since I first opened MCS six years ago, and he's been a model employee. He joined me after working as a customer service rep at a call center near Baton Rouge. Robert has the best customer service I could ask for. When I was barely nineteen years old, he took a risk and joined me in opening an art gallery, a business that usually has old farts running things. But more importantly, he's given me a great right-hand man on the business side. He's a chameleon, really. He can be snobby and pretentious when he's dealing with society types, or he can be casual and down-to-earth, which helps put our new money clients at ease. I'm glad I have him working for me.

  “Hey Robert, it's Carson.”

  “Oh, hi Mr. Sands,” Robert says. That's his one quirk, and in all this time I haven't been able to get him to stop. I hate being called Mr. Sands. I'm Carson, always Carson. Nobody should call me Mr. Sands until I'm at least forty. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, everything's fine. I'm going to work from home today though and just take care of some paperwork. So if anyone calls for me, unless they've got a house burning down, have them schedule an appointment.”

  I hear the shower turn off, and the sound of Melissa walking down the hall toward her bedroom.

  Robert takes my news in stride and I can hear him smile. “Okay, Mr. Sands. We'll make sure to keep things running.”

  “Good deal, Robert. Thanks. See you Monday.”

  I hang up. just as Melissa comes in. She's fully dressed in a pair of simple relaxed fit jeans and a t-shirt. It's what she normally wears around the house. I get my first hint of what her mind is like today when I see that she's got her tennis shoes on instead of her boots. She never wears tennis shoes if she's planning on going out to the barn. “Good morning, 'Lissa. How're you feeling this morning?”

  Melissa comes over and hugs me from behind, humming happily. “You took care of me, for the ten-thousandth time. Thank you Carson, and I'm doing much better because of it. How about you? I overheard a bit of your phone call, you're sticking around today?”

  “Yeah. If anything, I've got some junk to clear out in the back two acres, and I can keep up with the paperwork stuff here,” I reassure her. “I'll have my radio with me, so if something happens, I can be back in two minutes. I'll take the Kodiak with the trailer to haul stuff.”

  I bought the Yamaha ATV not so much for utility purposes, although the trailer does make itself useful. Instead it's so I can always be within five minutes of Melissa whenever I'm on our property. With a 700cc engine, I can haul ass if I drop the trailer.

  Melissa lets go and goes into the kitchen, taking down a big pot from a shelf above the stove. “You just need to get out to the back to do some target practice. I know you, Carson. Whenever I have a night like last night, you let go of stress with target practice. So, which is it going to be today, the pistols or the bow?”

  She is my sister, so of course she knows me. “The pistol today,” I admit, thinking about what I have in my part of the barn. “But I do need to actually clear away the range first. I've been lazy with it over the summer. Now that fall's here, I need to get it hacked back. If I don't, it's gonna get woody, start breaking up the boards on the target area. I just built that thing three years ago. I don't need to go replacing it already.”

  “And it lets you work up a sweat, which I know helps you, too,” Melissa says, filling the pot with water and milk and getting out a box of Cream of Wheat. For a Southern family, the fact we prefer Cream of Wheat over grits is nearly a whipping offense, but Melissa can't stand corn in the mornings. It's just another one of her quirks, since she loves cornbread at night. “Well, let me make you breakfast at least. When I was in the shower, I decided that I'm going to work on my paintings today instead of the sculpture. They sell better for you anyway.”

  “You know money isn't an issue,” I reassure her. “Seriously 'Lissa, with your eye and your reputation, you could put out one piece a decade and we'd still have plenty of money.”

  “Reputation,” Melissa says softly, laughing to herself. “Louisiana's own cross between Vincent Van Gogh and Banksy. The depressive recluse.”

  “Oh, you're much less crazy than Van Gogh, and you do go out in public sometimes, so the art community does kinda know your face. I mean, you went to that showing what, six months ago?” I ask, waking up my laptop and opening my e-mail while Melissa cooks. While she waits for the pot to boil she quickly scrambles a half dozen eggs to split between us before she puts the Cream of Wheat in the pot. “Speaking of which, there's one next month too, if you want to go. If not, I can handle it.”

  “We'll see,” Melissa says, plating up our breakfast, bringing me a huge bowl of the cereal. Whenever I tell her I'm going to do some manual labor, she makes sure to fill me nearly to bursting. “Here, I know you'll need the energy.”

  After breakfast, Melissa retreats to her painting room upstairs while I get my things together out of the barn. Our farm is small, only five acres, and doesn't do any farming anymore, but I do maintain the back field as a place for me to indulge in one of my hobbies, target shooting. Whether it's with pistols, bows, or crossbows, I find the steadiness and concentration needed relaxing.

  First though, I wasn't lying to Melissa when I told her I need to clear out the range. The grass is almost to my knees, and the area around the safety backstop is covered with kudzu. I can't completely eliminate it, so I do my best to control it. Using a swing cutter, I take the grass down to ankle height before clearing away the kudzu vines with a machete and a lot of pulling. I strip off my shirt while I work, although I'm still wearing thick denim work pants and heavy military jungle boots just in case. I've encountered cottonmouths back here twice, although they weren't aggressive. Still, no need to risk a bite from some startled snake.

  I'm covered in sweat and my back muscles ache when I finish pulling the last of the kudzu off the backstop. I drag it to the far end of the field to join the rest of the pile I've been accumulating for the year. I'll probably burn it off come November, maybe December, right before a forecast rain storm.

  The work feels good though, and I'm happy to sit in the shade of my backstop for twenty minutes and down a bottle of water while I let my hands stop trembling. It's not too warm, only in the upper seventies, but the sun is bright and I'm feeling more relaxed as I set up my targets for shooting. I use a revolving metal target, and Melissa added her own little twist to the plain black metal, cutting the round targets into artistic shapes, adding to the challenge.

  I walk back twenty yards, not quite competition distance, but I'm not trying out for the Olympics any time soon. Instead, I slide a clip into my Smith & Wesson and take a deep breath, letting half of it out. My hands are still a bit shaky. I haven't had a chance to work this hard in a while, and I accept it, knowing after so many years that the more I fight it, the worse it'll get.

  The first clip is good, I hit the targets eight out of ten times, and after taking another drink, I put in my second clip. My Smith can handle fifteen rounds if I want it to, but for target shooting I go with preloaded ten round clips, mainly because I like to keep track of my hit percentage, and ten is easy that way.

  I work through ten clips today, a hundred rounds in total, and I'm happy with my final percentage, seventy-nine. Usually I have a drop-off as I get tired, but I'm apparently more at peace and in better shape than I thought. I police up my brass carefully, since I take it to the gun shop I use and the owner gives me a disco
unt on new rounds. I don't need the discount, but it keeps my land clean. Sometimes I give it to Melissa instead, who melts it down in her furnace to add to her sculptures.

  When I get back to the house, I park the ATV in its spot in the barn and unhook quickly, taking my shooting gear inside where I've got my cleaning kit. I figure that 'Lissa must be painting still since the house is so quiet, but then I hear something out front. I go into the living room, shocked at what I see in our front yard.

  'Lissa is talking with someone! Holy shit! And... wait a second... is she smiling? I want to hear what's going on, but I don't want to interrupt this moment for her. I get closer, staying in the shadows of the house to hover by the front screen door, where I can see them and listen at the same time.

  Melissa is maybe halfway between the porch and the chain-link fence that marks the front of our property and by the smile I see on her face, she's excited and happy. And if I didn't know better, I'd say she's interested in the guy. He's tall and well-built with black hair that's just beginning to go gray at the temples. While I can't see his eyes, he's got a wicked-looking scar that starts just above his left eye. It gives him a bit of a menacing look, but it also makes him look like he's surprised. Still, he's smiling at Melissa, and he doesn't look all that scary when he does.

  “So you are an artist?” the man says, with a voice that makes him sound like a soft spoken James Earl Jones. “That is fascinating.”

  “Thank you, but you're flattering me,” Melissa replies, and I swear I hear flirting in her voice. I've never heard that before. Ever. The fact is, my sister's never had a boyfriend, and despite her concern about my sexual health, I'm pretty sure she's a virgin. “I just do a little bit of painting and sculpting.”

  “Still,” the man replies, looking up at the house. “To be able to be willing to harness your emotions, to show them to the world... that takes courage. I know I would never be able to do it. I am too scared of what I know is already inside of me.”

 

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