Dead Ends

by JT Ellison

  The doors swing open with a groan and reveal a cavernous entry hall filled with cobwebs, scattered leaves, and the smell of mildew. Beneath the clutter I can see patches of a large tile mosaic on the floor. Swirling bits of green and yellow tile are illuminated in the beam of my flashlight. I think they might be vines or a wreath, and I understand why Sabine Bergeron lost her ever-loving mind. I’d start seeing snakes on the walls, too, if I spent the better part of my life trapped in this house staring at something like that.

  “There,” I say, pointing to a set of closed doors on the right. “The records room.”

  The heavy French doors are swollen shut, and it takes both of us yanking on them with all our strength before they wheeze outward. Inside are tables and file cabinets and crates piled high with leather-bound books. There is no apparent order, no rhyme or reason to where things are placed. Unlike most archives, you will not find a card catalog or sections of any kind. There are only piles and piles of log books.

  “You’re kidding me?” Piss says.

  “Surely you weren’t expecting the Library of Congress?”

  He gives me a blank, clueless glance, then reaches toward the crate nearest him. He lifts a logbook from the stack and waves it in front of me. “We came here for this? I thought we’d find something valuable.”

  “It’s valuable to me. You’re welcome to wait at the boat until it’s time to go.”

  Piss hooks a thumb behind him. “Out there? With the bodies?”

  “I won’t be long.”

  He grips his flashlight a little tighter and slides out the door. I wait until I can’t hear the soft thump of his footsteps or his muttered curses. I wait until the crashing in my chest slows and I’ve caught my breath. I wait until I can almost feel June’s phantom breath on the back of my neck, urging me on. She would want me to do this, I think. Her choice wasn’t so dissimilar in the end. But God, I wish she could see me finish it on her behalf. She was the reason for it then, and she’s the reason for it now. At least that’s what I tell myself. Because if I don’t finish this, Guidry will eventually be found. John Doe will be identified. And I can’t let that happen. Not after all this time.

  Trouble is, it would be hard to find the burial manifest even if I knew what I was looking for. But this… this is a rat’s nest. Yet there has to be some sort of order. So I step back, slowly illuminating the room with the beam of my flashlight. Dozens of file cabinets are shoved up against the wall. Each cabinet has the year stamped on a metal plaque at the top. But they aren’t in numerical order after 1960, and they stop altogether after 1981.

  I can tell from the occasional open drawer that each cabinet is stuffed with book after book of burial manifests. A quick glance at the nearest one shows that each logbook has one hundred pages and there are five names per page, listing occupant, age, relatives, plot number, and any other pertinent information. So, math. That’s what this will take. Math and a reason and patience. All things I possess in abundance. It’s clear that the boxes and crates stacked on the tables are the newest arrivals to Phelipeaux Inlet, which means the file cabinets hold the earlier residents. 1977 is shoved into a far corner.

  I find Bertrand Guidry as the sun comes up. He’s in the third drawer down, fifth book in. John Doe. Remains found beneath the pier at Orleans Marina. Brought to Phelipeaux on June 14, 1987. Buried under plot marker 185. No other information available.

  The irony of this notation makes me snort. Guidry was brought here ten years to the day after he died. No wonder I don’t remember. I observed that particular anniversary by listening to Louis Armstrong on vinyl and marinating my liver in cheap bourbon.

  I tap his name—handwritten in a blockish script—and then rip the page from the book. It’s impulse, really. I could fold the paper and take it with me, a memento. But instead I wad it in my hand, overcome by sudden, raging emotion. If not for this bastard, I might still have June. She might have lived long enough to bear us a child or get lines around her eyes or complain of fat thighs and gray hair. She might not have died so young and so horribly, and I wouldn’t have spent the last forty years of my life alone.

  So I crush the paper in my fist, and I clutch it like I’m squeezing the life out of Guidry’s very heart. And damn if it doesn’t feel good.

  I draw a lighter from my pocket and strike it with my thumb. Yes. There. Just a spark. A tiny curve of flame. But it’s all I need. I hover Guidry’s burial record over the lighter with my trembling hand. And it catches, like the most glorious kindling. A bright, lazy flame licks its way up the edge of the paper, and I’m so mesmerized by this moment of triumph that I don’t turn my hand in time to shift the fire away from my wrist. It only takes one searing bite before I drop the paper. I watch it fall as though in slow motion. Turning, tumbling toward the nearest table and its pile of teetering logbooks. It collapses in a shower of sparks.

  At first I think the flame has gone out. But a dozen tiny embers have burrowed deep within the dry and brittle pages on the table. A dozen little fires erupt. It only takes a few seconds of beating at them frantically with my coat before I realize I’m standing in a tinderbox.

  I’ll have to repent for a dozen things when I leave this place. My parish priest will accommodate me. He always does. But it’s the sin of arson, and how I’ll phrase those words in the confessional, that I’m pondering as I watch the fire spread.

  I am struck by a brief remorse for what I’ve done as I see the names of strangers—men, women, and children—blacken before my eyes. I have ruined any chance of them ever being found. But as I stumble backward toward the door, I realize what an idiot I am. No one is fool enough to come here, looking for the lost. No one but me.

  I turn and run from the Chateau.

  The entire records room is an inferno by the time I stumble, breathless, to the gates. The fire is beautiful and horrible at once, giving the dilapidated Chateau its first semblance of warmth in decades. It almost looks as if the lights are on in that room, as if a merry fire is burning in the fireplace. And then the windows explode and the flames rush outward with a greedy scream, sucking up the air, licking the exterior walls, engulfing all the tangled, climbing vines. It is mesmerizing, and I want to watch it burn to the ground.

  But the Potter’s Navy will arrive soon with their daily delivery of the dead. We only have a short time to get away. So I turn off my flashlight and leave the Chateau, her secrets, and this all-consuming fire behind me.

  I find Piss and Vinny at the boat. They don’t see me at first. Their eyes are on the billowing smoke and climbing flames that now stretch well above the tree line.

  “He burned it down,” Piss says. “I didn’t know he was going to burn it down.”

  Vinny’s eyes are huge and his hands shake. “Like I said. Batshit crazy.”

  “We gotta get out of here.”

  “Can’t,” Vinny says. “That old fucker has the boat keys.”

  “Well, I’m not stupid,” I say as I draw the keys from my pocket and jingle them for effect. They startle so badly, I’m worried Piss might live up to his moniker. I climb into the boat and hand him the keys. “Stop staring. Let’s go. We don’t have all day.”

  Vinny wastes no time pushing the boat into the water, and then the outboard motor roars to life and we’re off, back the way we came.

  I watch the malevolent, hellish glow of the fire until the river bends and the current drags us out of sight. But even then the acrid scent lingers. It is the smell of charred memory. Names, dates, lives all turning to ash.

  “Another hundred bucks when we reach the marina,” Vinny shouts over the roar of the motor. “Don’t forget!”

  I am many things, but forgetful is not one of them. It is the curse I live with. A clear and perfect memory. For decades, I’ve prayed that I will lose this gift, that the edges of my mind will blur and crumble. They don’t. My punishment is to remember. June, mostly. The high, soft curve of her breasts. The deep black of her hair. The sweet lilt to her laugh. The ele
gant arch of her hands as they work the beads on her rosary. I remember it all.

  And I remember the night I came home from a double shift to find my wife, frying pan in hand, standing over a dead body. I remember the blood on the linoleum and the splintered bone of his skull. I remember the look of horror on June’s face, how she dropped the pan and backed away.

  “He propositioned me at the restaurant. I didn’t see him follow me home.” I remember the lump in her elegant throat as she swallowed, hard. “He tried to—”

  I pulled June into my arms and pressed her face to my chest. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Things might have ended differently if I’d called the precinct before I checked his wallet. Neither of us recognized him. We had no idea he was Bertrand Guidry. Corrupt. Legendary gangster. Connected. Lecherous. Vengeful. But it probably wouldn’t have mattered that she was defending herself. It wouldn’t matter that I was a detective. Hell, that might have made it worse. There was no getting out of it.

  So I took care of everything. The chains. The cinder block. The early morning trip to the marina. I just couldn’t take care of June.

  Guidry’s men did that three weeks later.

  The next body I find will be June’s.

  Enjoy these stories?

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  Contributors

  Jeff Abbott

  Jeff Abbott is the New York Times bestselling, award-winning author of eighteen mystery and suspense novels. The Washington Post called him “one of the best thriller writers in the business.” His novels have been Summer Reading Picks by the TODAY Show, Good Morning America, O the Oprah Magazine, and USA TODAY. His latest novel, BLAME, centers on a young amnesiac trying to solve her own attempted murder. He is currently adapting his novel PANIC for television with The Weinstein Company.

  Jeff is a winner of the Thriller Award (for THE LAST MINUTE). He is a three-time nominee for the Mystery Writers of America’s Edgar Award. His first novel, DO UNTO OTHERS, won the Agatha Award for Best First Mystery.

  Jeff lives in Austin with his family.

  jeffabbott.com

  Helen Ellis

  Helen Ellis is the author of the national bestselling short story collection AMERICAN HOUSEWIFE. She is a poker player who competes on the national tournament circuit and, in her spare time, watches The Walking Dead with her husband in New York.

  Patti Callahan Henry

  Patti Callahan Henry is a New York Times bestselling author of twelve novels, including THE BOOKSHOP AT WATER’S END (July 2017). A finalist in the Townsend Prize for Fiction, an Indie Next Pick, an OKRA pick, and a multiple nominee for the Southern Independent Booksellers Alliance (SIBA) Novel of the Year, Patti is a frequent speaker at luncheons, book clubs, and women’s groups. The mother of three children, she now lives in both Mountain Brook, Alabama, and Bluffton, South Carolina, with her husband.

  patticallahanhenry.com

  Amanda Stevens

  Amanda Stevens is the award-winning author of over sixty novels in multiple genres, including thriller, paranormal, and romantic suspense. Her Graveyard Queen series, optioned by both ABC and NBC, has been described as eerie and atmospheric, “a new take on the classic ghost story.” She is a three-time RITA finalist and a 2016 nominee in the Goodreads Choice Awards for Best Horror. Born and raised in the rural south, Amanda now resides in Houston, Texas, where she enjoys binge watching, bike riding, and the occasional Horror and Heineken Night with old friends. Her latest novel is THE AWAKENING.

  amandastevens.com

  Paige Crutcher

  Paige Crutcher is a writer, reader, yogi, and journalist. She’s written for a variety of literary publications, including Publishers Weekly—where she worked as the Southern Correspondent and contributing editor. She’s currently co-owner of the online marketing company cSocially Media. More often than not, Paige has her nose in a book (occasionally while inside her book fort), because inside story is where the magic waits. She lives in her hometown of Franklin, Tennessee, with her family, overactive imagination, and a houseful of books. Her latest novel is THE ODYSSEY OF FALLING.

  paigecrutcher.com

  Dana Chamblee Carpenter

  Dana Chamblee Carpenter is the author of THE DEVIL’S BIBLE, the sequel to BOHEMIAN GOSPEL, a supernatural historical thriller which won the 2014 Killer Nashville Claymore Award and which Publishers Weekly called “a deliciously creepy debut.” Edgar Award nominee and author of THE ABANDONED HEART Laura Benedict says, “Look out, Dan Brown. Dana Chamblee Carpenter is the angels’ new champion in the timeless battle between darkness and light. THE DEVIL’S BIBLE is not just a book, but a shining, vibrant tale for the ages—told with history and heart—that will have readers both weeping and cheering not only for brave Mouse, but for all of humanity.”

  Carpenter’s award-winning short fiction has appeared in The Arkansas Review, Jersey Devil Press, Maypop, and in the anthology Killer Nashville Noir: Cold Blooded.

  She teaches at a private university in Nashville, Tennessee, where she lives with her husband and two children.

  danachambleecarpenter.com

  Laura Benedict

  Laura Benedict is the Edgar- and ITW Thriller Award-nominated author of six novels of dark suspense, including the Bliss House gothic trilogy: THE ABANDONED HEART, CHARLOTTE’S STORY (Booklist starred review), and BLISS HOUSE. Her mystery/suspense novel, ONE LAST SECRET, will be published by Mulholland Books in 2018/2019. Laura’s short fiction has appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, PANK, on NPR, and in numerous anthologies like Thrillers: 100 Must-Reads, The Lineup: 20 Provocative Women Writers, and St. Louis Noir. A native of Cincinnati, Ohio, she grew up in Louisville, Kentucky, and claims both as hometowns. Read her daily blog and sign up for her newsletter at laurabenedict.com.

  laurabenedict.com

  Bryon Quertermous

  Bryon Quertermous is a writer and editor. He was shortlisted for the Debut Dagger Award from the Crime Writers Association, and his short stories have appeared in a number of print and online journals of varying repute. His latest novel, RIOT LOAD, is available now from Polis Books.

  Bryon lives somewhere between Ann Arbor and Detroit (metaphorically as well as physically), where he can be found screaming at the TV with his wife during football and baseball season and playing Ninja Turtles and My Little Pony with his kids the rest of the time. Visit him at bryonquertermous.com and follow him on Twitter @BryonQ.

  bryonquertermous.com

  Dave White

  Dave White is the Derringer Award–winning author of six novels: WHEN ONE MAN DIES, THE EVIL THAT MEN DO, NOT EVEN PAST, AN EMPTY HELL, and BLIND TO SIN in his Jackson Donne series, and the acclaimed thriller WITNESS TO DEATH. His short story “Closure” won the Derringer Award for Best Short Mystery Story. Publishers Weekly gave the first two novels in his Jackson Donne series starred reviews, calling WHEN ONE MAN DIES an “engrossing, evocative debut novel” and writing that THE EVIL THAT MEN DO “fulfills the promise of his debut.”

  He received praise from crime fiction luminaries such as bestselling, Edgar Award–winning Laura Lippman and the legendary James Crumley. His standalone thriller, WITNESS TO DEATH, was an e-book bestseller upon release and named one of the Best Books of the Year by the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel. He li
ves in Nutley, New Jersey. Follow him at @dave_white.

  davewhitebooks.com

  Lisa Morton

  Lisa Morton is a screenwriter, author of nonfiction books, Bram Stoker Award-winning prose writer, and Halloween expert whose work was described by the American Library Association’s Readers’ Advisory Guide to Horror as “consistently dark, unsettling, and frightening.” She has published four novels, over a hundred short stories, and three books on the history of Halloween. Her most recent releases include GHOSTS: A HAUNTED HISTORY and CEMETERY DANCE SELECT: LISA MORTON; and the forthcoming anthology HAUNTED NIGHTS, co-edited with Ellen Datlow. She lives in the San Fernando Valley, and can be found online at www.lisamorton.com.

  lisamorton.com

  David Bell

  David Bell is a bestselling and award-winning author whose work has been translated into multiple foreign languages. He’s currently an associate professor of English at Western Kentucky University in Bowling Green, Kentucky, where he directs the MFA program. He received an MA in creative writing from Miami University in Oxford, Ohio, and a PhD in American literature and creative writing from the University of Cincinnati. His novels are BRING HER HOME, SINCE SHE WENT AWAY, SOMEBODY I USED TO KNOW, THE FORGOTTEN GIRL, NEVER COME BACK, THE HIDING PLACE, and CEMETERY GIRL.

  davidbellnovels.com