“Yeah, I’m pooped! Landry, you come back and see me now, you hear?”
Who was Paulie, and where was he? Landry sat in the parking lot and searched the internet. Lee had lived in Perry his entire life, but that tiny town had no churches. The largest church in the parish, Saint Mary Magdalene in Abbeville, was just two miles away, but there was no one on staff named Paul or Paulie. And it might not even be a staff person he was looking for. Paulie might be someone who worshipped there — a faithful member of the flock. If it wasn’t a clergyman, Landry faced going to every church in the parish to look for someone named Paul.
Crossing his fingers, he searched for parish clergymen named Paul and found two. Both were priests, one in a small church in Abbeville and one ten miles away in Kaplan.
He called the Kaplan church and spoke with Father Paul Ambrose, who had served the congregation for two years after moving from Shreveport. He had never heard of Lee Alard and had never heard of Asher.
Father Paul Broussard, the one in Abbeville, was out for a few hours. Landry left his number and checked in with Cate, who said she and Callie were driving to Lafayette for a late lunch at Prejean’s. He said he’d join them and turned south to pick up the Evangeline Thruway. Prejean’s was a classic Cajun restaurant frequented by locals and tourists alike. Even at two p.m. it was busy, and he got one of the only available parking spots.
An enormous stuffed alligator greeted him just inside the door, its yawning mouth flashing sharp teeth. Cate waved from across the room. Just as he joined them and ordered a beer, his phone rang.
He stepped to the lobby to take the call. It was Father Paul Broussard, asking how he could help.
Landry explained he was an investigative reporter, and the priest laughed. “I don’t think you need an introduction, Mr. Drake. What’s this about?”
“I had a visit with Lee Alard. He mentioned I should talk to Paulie, but we got cut short, and I didn’t get anything else. By chance are you Paulie?”
“I am! Mr. Lee — gosh, how’s he doing? I haven’t seen him in a couple of years. I’ve known him since I was a kid. I was little Paulie Broussard to him, and I guess I always will be.”
Landry asked if he could come to Abbeville tomorrow, and the priest agreed, adding that he was looking forward to meeting Landry and hearing what he was up to in the parish. Since it was Sunday, they agreed to meet at the church after noon Mass.
He returned to Cate and Callie, ordered an oyster po’boy, and filled them in on his trip to Opelousas. He told Cate they would have to leave earlier tomorrow than they’d planned. “I just set up an interview in Abbeville at one. When it’s over, I’ll drop you at the Lafayette airport before I drive home.”
Callie insisted on taking Cate to Lafayette herself. It made better sense; once Landry was finished in Abbeville, he could go on to New Orleans instead of backtracking for an hour.
“I’m still worried about you going there,” Cate said, explaining to Callie that he was persona non grata in Vermilion Parish. He promised to make the visit quick, to stay under the radar and out of trouble. The girls laughed.
After lunch they drove to St. Francisville and spent the afternoon with Callie’s husband, Jordan Blanchard, and his daughters. The improvements Jordan had made to the B&B that had once been his home office were impressive. Cate and Landry lingered for a long time in the nursery, the room where Jordan’s girls had disappeared. As they stood in the bright, sunny room, they remarked on how different it was today than when Jordan first opened the door. For fifty years no one had been inside — it was dark, gloomy and filled with ancient toys. The room and its eerie occupant had drawn his children into a sequence of horrifying events.
Something positive came from their experiences. After going through hell in this room, Callie and Jordan had emerged knowing they were meant to be together. Their bond was strengthened when Anne-Marie, the child ghost who once saved Callie’s life, stepped in to facilitate the return of Jordan’s missing children. Had she not agreed to help, Jordan would never have seen them again.
They decided on an early dinner before the three of them drove back to Beau Rivage, and everyone got a kick out of Landry’s suggestion they eat at the River View. It was a low-end dive on a dead-end road where Landry had gone looking for information. It was a lot of things, but not the place for their dinner.
They drove to an outstanding little seafood restaurant on the False River in New Roads, just down the road and across the Mississippi from St. Francisville. Landry brought Jordan up to speed on his work in Vermilion Parish, mentioning the voicemail that got everything started, what his research had turned up so far, and how almost everyone in Abbeville was friendly. Except for the sheriff and the undertaker. Jordan wondered what that was about, and Landry repeated what Lee had told him — some people keep secrets for a long, long time.
“There’s something going on, and it involves Asher,” he added as the food came and they prepared to dive in to their sizzling dishes. “The more they try to run me off, the more I wonder what it is.”
“Don’t forget what curiosity did to the cat,” Cate replied.
He looked at her and grinned, but she wasn’t smiling.
As the sun set and the tree frogs down by the water began their nightly trills, they reminisced about friendship, adventure and good times ahead. After a scrumptious meal, two bottles of wine, and a shared slab of mile-high cake, Jordan drove back to St. Francisville, and the others returned to Beau Rivage.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The tower bells of the little church pealed, signaling the end of Mass. From the parking lot, Landry watched the priest and his parishioners come through the front doors, shaking hands and gathering in small groups to chat, as good friends do.
The cleric was tall, with wavy black hair and a kind demeanor. He gave everyone a warm smile and spoke with them. Landry knew they’d be complimenting him on the sermon or asking about his health, or just chatting with the leader of the flock.
Church had been a big part of his life as a youth, and he sometimes felt something was missing now that he didn’t attend. He had prayed many times for God’s help in a tough situation. God always came through, but somehow Landry accepted the help, offering nothing in return.
He approached the priest, maintaining a respectful distance until the last people finished talking. He’s not much older than I am, Landry thought.
“Father Broussard? I’m Landry Drake.”
“It’s just Paul. I saw you walking from the parking lot. It’s an honor to have you here, and I can’t wait to find out what’s up.”
The priest said his office was too small for visits. Even the confessional was bigger, he laughed. He suggested lunch at the RiverFront, and soon they were at an outside table overlooking the Vermilion River, with two glasses of Pinot Noir and bowls of okra gumbo on the way.
Landry explained how following Lee Alard’s cryptic references to Paulie and the church had led him here. The priest explained he’d been little Paulie Broussard to everyone in Perry when he was growing up. For some, the nickname never went away, even when he chose the priesthood. He inquired about Lee’s health, and Landry told him about his visits and that the old man was in a facility in Opelousas now.
They talked about what brought Landry to Abbeville. “It started with an anonymous voicemail someone left with our station manager. The girl sounded afraid for her life, Father. Lee Alard said if anybody knew what was going on in this parish, it would be you.”
A shadow moved across Father Paul’s face. His voice dropped, and Landry had to lean in to hear him. “I wish I could help you, but I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong person. I’m sorry to waste your time; if you wish, we can cancel our lunch order so you can get back to New Orleans.”
In an instant his cordiality was gone.
“That’s fine. We can talk about other things. Growing up in Perry, I’m sure you listened to stories about Billy Whistler and the cult, even if you don’t know anything
about the girl who called.”
It took a long time for his reply, and he had a pained expression on his face when he spoke. “I didn’t say I knew nothing about the girl. I said I wish I could help you.”
“So you do know?”
Another long pause. “I’m a priest, Landry. There are things I’m required to hold in confidence.”
“Are you talking about confessions?”
He nodded. “Not just that. You can’t ask more of me than I can give.”
At that moment a hand clamped down on Landry’s shoulder and squeezed hard.
“Well, well, look who’s back in town. The famous ghost hunter.” Sheriff Conreco looked out of place in a coat and tie. He’d been to church and chosen the same restaurant for lunch. And he’d spotted Landry, which wasn’t good.
“Hello, Sheriff,” the priest said with a smile.
Conreco nodded respectfully. “Father, you’re in mighty poor company. This fellow here isn’t welcome in Vermilion Parish. In fact, I told him I’d lock him up if I saw him here again. Didn’t I, Mr. Drake?”
“That’s what you said, although I still haven’t heard on what grounds you intend to arrest me.”
The sheriff looked at his watch. “You’ve got fifteen minutes. If you’re still here, you and I are going to the station.”
Father Paul didn’t understand. “Sheriff, has Mr. Drake committed a crime? If he has, why haven’t you arrested him already? And if he hasn’t, what’s the big deal? We’re not in the Wild West, are we? Is this town not big enough for the both of you?”
The priest smiled, but Junior wasn’t happy. He wasn’t accustomed to being challenged; he was the law in a small town, and people did what he commanded. Truth was, he had no cause to hold the reporter. He simply wanted the problem gone.
He pointed his finger at the priest and growled, “Watch what you say to him, Father. You’re not part of this, and trust me, you don’t want to be. Stay away from this nosy little pissant.” He turned and walked back to a table where his wife waited.
As lunch arrived, other diners pointed and whispered. The sheriff’s visit to their table had caught people’s attention. They looked over and realized who Landry was.
Father Paul asked what was wrong with the sheriff, and Landry explained. He listened without commenting until both Landry’s story and their meals were finished.
“There are secrets in this parish,” he said after Landry settled the check. “You’re getting too close for some people’s comfort. I’m not sure how you’ve been received in other places, but things work differently here. My advice is that you find another story. A few people have kept things under wraps for more than a hundred years. You can’t understand —” He paused, unsure what else to say. “This goes far deeper than you can imagine, that’s all I’m saying.”
“You’re telling me to let this story go? What about that terrified girl who said she’d be dead if ‘they’ found out she called? Are you willing to risk that happening, when you could help? Who are ‘they,’ and why does it matter after all this time? As you said, it’s been over a hundred years. Don’t you care about the poor girl’s welfare? She’s reaching out for help, and there’s something you aren’t telling me.”
The priest stood and walked Landry out of the restaurant without a word. Only when they reached the parking lot did he answer.
“You ask why it matters? It matters because it isn’t over, and it may never be. I care very much about the girl’s welfare. I said earlier there are things I cannot tell you. Let this go while you can. Once things settle down, everything will be fine.”
“This isn’t right, Father. How can you live with yourself? You could be part of the solution, but you’re choosing to let the bad things continue.”
Father Paul nodded. “As God is my witness, I want to make things right. For your own sake, I implore you to drop this now. If you insist on continuing, I’ll contact her. If — and that’s a big if — she agrees to talk, I’ll call you. Don’t count on it and promise me you’ll let it go if she won’t talk to you.”
“It’s the right thing to do, even if only for her sake. And, Father, I can’t promise you anything. The less you tell me, the more intrigued I am.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you. You hold Pandora’s box in your hands. If you open the lid, you’ll never close it again.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
After meeting Landry, Father Paul prayed for God’s guidance. What should he do? Landry had a point. Em had left a voicemail asking for help, and he knew why, because he knew a great deal about her. He thought back to that odd day recently when they first met.
He had entered the confession box, and a thin black curtain separated him from the person on the other side. She cleared her throat several times and shuffled her feet, but she hadn’t spoken. He made the Sign of the Cross and began. “In the name of the Father —”
“Crap!” she yelled. “I didn’t know there was somebody over there!”
He pulled back the curtain and saw a teenaged girl wearing a torn homemade dress. She had matted hair and a face streaked with dirt. She looked frightened and frazzled.
“Are you — are you hiding from somebody too?” she asked in a whisper.
“Hiding? Is that why you came?”
“Yes, sir. Is this your house? I tried the door, and I came in to find someplace to rest.”
“This is a church, child, the house of God. Haven’t you ever been in a church?”
“No, sir.”
He pressed her, asking who she ran away from, but she wouldn’t answer. Then he said, “This is a confessional, a place where you can talk to God through me. Do you want to confess your sins?”
“I ain’t the one who sinned, sir. The others did, and they’ll kill me if they find out I told anyone.”
Father Paul wasn’t sure what to do. Many people hesitated to tell private things during first confessions, but there was something heartbreaking in the girl’s words. He had a feeling whatever she confessed would be something his training hadn’t prepared him for.
He took her to his cramped office because he thought it important to talk to her face-to-face. She resisted at first but then gave in. The child needed help, and he hoped he could give it to her.
She said her name was Em. When he asked her last name, she didn’t know for sure. Savary maybe, or Lafont. It had to be one or the other, she said. She thought for a moment and said, “I think it’s Savary.” Her ragged clothes and men’s running shoes a size too large made her look like an escapee from a refugee camp.
“Em. That’s a nice name. Is it short for Emily?”
“It ain’t short for nothin’.”
He said he didn’t understand, and she explained, “My name’s M. Just M. The girls’ names are just letters. Only men get real names. You know that, right?”
He shook his head and wondered where on earth this girl came from. It seemed she’d dropped in from another place — a time warp, or a Twilight Zone episode — and had just dropped into his confessional. She spoke English in an uneducated, country way, but every word from her lips was bizarre and unreal.
M, she explained, was the thirteenth letter of the alphabet, although he doubted she knew the alphabet. She was the thirteenth child born in her birth year, so they called her M.
“I don’t understand. Where are you from?”
“New Asher. Elder Johnson Lafont’s the leader.”
“I’ve never heard of it. Where is it?”
“Where the commune is. I ran away last night because they were going to punish me.”
He learned that after lights out at nine p.m. yesterday, she sneaked away from a town hidden deep in a forest near a bayou. She’d never been away, but several of the boys had been to another place – a bigger town where the elder and his deacons bought supplies with the elder and his deacons. Those boys told stories about how different things were in the outside world.
She found a highway and followed it north thr
oughout the night, hiding in the trees every time a vehicle approached. After a long walk she came to Abbeville, a larger and more frightening place than she’d ever seen. Father Paul tried to put himself in her shoes. Her town had wooden buildings and houses, but Abbeville was filled with structures, each bright with electricity. And there were cars, trucks and people everywhere.
She walked into town as the sun rose, and she hid under the church. Like many buildings in the flood-prone parish, the church sat on concrete pylons that raised it a foot off the ground. She crawled underneath and slept, awakening when she heard him open the church doors. She sneaked inside, saw him dusting the sanctuary, and hid in the confessional where he found her.
He wanted to ask why she believed people were out to kill her, but first there were basic needs to attend to. She was hungry, dusty and exhausted, and he enlisted the matronly church secretary to find her clean clothes and shoes from the clothes closet. The lady showed her to the bathroom and taught her how to use the toilet, sink and shower that the church had installed for the homeless people. After getting over her astonishment about how water came from a pipe in the wall, she took a long hot shower.
She emerged fresh and clean, and Father Paul said he’d take her to a restaurant for breakfast. She had never heard of a restaurant, and when she learned it involved leaving the church, she refused to go outside because “they” might be waiting. He went instead, returning with eggs, bacon, buttered toast and hash browns, all of which she ate ravenously, using her fingers more than the spoon, the only utensil she recognized.
She seemed comfortable talking to him, although each little noise from outside his office startled her. She told her story, one that would have sounded outlandish if this pitiful waif hadn’t been sitting next to him. He believed her because he felt she wasn’t capable of lying.
Although vigilantes wiped out Asher, that wasn’t the end of things. The Sons of Jehovah simply moved away and built another town — New Asher. She described her trip from the town to Abbeville, and he decided it might lie in the woods south of Delcambre and near Bayou Carlin.
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