“Anything.”
“Live a happy life.
“I’ll do my best,” I say, sniffling.
“Will you kiss me goodbye, Cheyenne? In prison, I’d get though many tough days by dreaming of the day you’d kiss me again.”
I wipe my face with my sleeve before lowering my head to softly press my lips against his. With a gentle touch, he reaches to embrace me as best he can in such an awkward predicament. I can feel his life’s energy slipping away.
“Pray with me, Cheyenne?” Luke asks. I nod, lest he hear the heartbreak in my voice. “Our Father…” I lie in his arms, cold dirt surrounding us, with my head propped on his shoulder. The warmth of his blood seeps through my clothes, and I fight the urge to scream out into the night.
“Our Father…” I begin. By the time I reach the final line, Luke is gone. His body goes limp, and I sit up so I can see his face. “No, no, no, Luke,” I say, gently running my fingers over his handsome face. Once I close his eyes by running my fingertips across his lids, I lightly kiss his forehead. I slump my head against the damp, dark soil in the hole. It’s then that reality comes crashing back. I’m not alone. Someone shot Felton. He is dead, isn’t he? I can’t even think straight.
I reach up to grasp the edges of the hole to pull myself out of the makeshift grave when a strong hand helps me onto solid ground. “Brant!” I say, lurching myself into his arms.
“There’s blood everywhere,” Brant says, pulling me away from his body to shine a bright flashlight up and down the length of my body. “How much of it is yours? Help is on the way.”
I shake my head. “None that I know of. Oh, my God, Brant! What just happened? Do you know why Felton did this? He was going to kill me. He killed Luke! He set him up and was going to make it look like we left town, and I can’t figure out any of this …” I glance over to see that Cal is standing over his father’s body. “Cal! Cal, do you know what this was about?”
He looks up, shock and disbelief show on his face. He simply shakes his head then goes back to staring at his father’s lifeless corpse.
“We don’t have to figure it all out right here and now. You’re safe now, Cheyenne.” Brant turns away from me briefly to say into the portable mic on his shoulder, “All clear. Come on in, guys.”
I take advantage of Brant’s diverted attention to move closer to Cal. I place my hand on his shoulder, and he pulls away like my appendage was a scalding hot piece of iron. “Cal, this isn’t my fault.”
“I need some time. I’m not angry or upset with you, but I need to be away from you right now. I have to come to terms with the fact that you shoved an ink pen in my father’s neck.”
“Are you kidding me?” I demand. “Do you know what I just went through?”
“Yeah, I believe I do since you happen to be drenched in my father’s blood.”
I feel as though he’s slapped me. “So, you’d feel better about the situation if I’d let him shoot me in the head instead of trying to protect myself. I see. The majority of this is the blood of my ex-husband who was MURDERED by your father, while trying to protect ME! Your father wanted me dead, Cal. DEAD! If you need time to come to terms with my method of self defense, maybe you were in on it, too? Do you want me dead, Cal?”
“I can’t believe you’d ask that,” he says. The wounded look in his eyes proves my words strike like daggers to his heart. Cal runs his hands through his hair. “Why would my dad do this?” he asks, his eyes pleading for the answers.
“That’s what I’d like to know, too. Cal, he made me write a note to you saying that Luke and I took off together then he planned to kill us and bury us there—in that hole he made Luke dig. The only thought I could come up with is that he wanted to keep you single. But would he really go through such an elaborate scheme and plan to kill two people to make it happen?”
“Three,” Brant offers. “That we know of.”
“Three?” Cal asks with disbelief.
“Odell. It wasn’t Luke who killed him. He was on a flight to Louisiana at the time. DNA came back with a match for Felton from some of the fingernail scrapings taken at Odell’s autopsy.”
“What?” Cal questions.
“Wait, you haven’t heard the half of it yet. Airport footage shows your dad picking up Luke and driving off with him in a white van with a false company logo on the side—probably one of those magnetic signs you can get off the internet. It seems as though he’s the one who made contact with Luke and drew him down here with the promise of a fake job.”
“But how did he know Luke was paroled or that he even existed for that matter? Maybe it was me? Maybe I mentioned to him about Cheyenne being married before. Shit, I can’t even comprehend what’s going on right now, much less remember the past,” Cal asserts.
“That’s how I’ve felt since touring Azalea Downs,” I explain.
“It’s a terrible feeling. I’m so sorry, Cheyenne. I should have been there for you more—more protective. More attentive…”
Cal is interrupted by Brant. “No use dwelling on it now. Your dad still had lots of contacts within the department. I’m sure he reached out to get the information he needed to put this plan together. Plus, he’s obviously good at what he does. I’ve heard some rumors about past cover ups, but largely ignored them because they weren’t relevant to me.”
“But what if Luke hadn’t been paroled? I ask.
Brant shrugs. “I guess he’d have come up with a different plan. Oh, and speaking of plans, Luke wasn’t the guy who left the box at your office, either. We pulled film from the school and though the guy looks a lot like him, it’s not. Guess it was Felton’s way of throwing you off your game. You know? Making you frazzled so you didn’t think straight.”
“He did a good job of that.” I shiver violently, so I stomp my feet to force blood to my extremities.
“Look, can I count on you to get her home and make sure she’s okay? I know you’ve been through a lot too, man, but it would be better for you to be there for each other while we sort through this mess,” Brant suggests to Cal.
“Of course I will. I’m sorry I was harsh earlier. I guess it was the shock of it all. I do love you, Cheyenne, and I can never apologize enough for my father putting you through this.”
“It’s not your place to apologize, Cal. You didn’t do this; he did. You’re a victim, too.” I turn to Brant. “Are we free to go? I need to get cleaned up. The blood…”
He nods before calling over a uniformed officer and instructing her to get us home. She’s also instructed to confiscate and bag our clothes as evidence before she leaves. She affirms the request and leads us to one of the boats waiting near the shore of the island. Cal carries me in his arms and gently places me in the boat to spare me the added discomfort of wading in the frigid dark water. More boats with more officers arrive, passing us as we head towards Frenchman’s Cove. As much as I want to forget the night’s events, I can’t seem to turn my eyes away from the island. I pull the wool blanket the female officer hands me tightly across my body. So much information to process, so much sadness to get over, so much hope dashed, so many questions unanswered— how will life ever get back to normal?
Chapter Fourteen
Cal and I are in our night clothes while drinking coffee in the kitchen, each with a throw over our shoulders to stave off the chill that still remains in our cores. Brant knocks at the door, and Cal gets off his stool long enough to open the door before hopping back up to finish his coffee.
Though freshly showered, it’s evident from the dark circles under his eyes that Brant hadn’t rested very well. I don’t even ask; I simply reach over to pull a mug off of the rack and fill it to the brim with piping hot dark roast. He doesn’t add anything to my offering, and simply downs it black.
Once he’s had a few gulps, he pulls a thick file folder out and starts to thumb through it after slapping it onto the counter. “Ready to try to get some of this figured out?” he asks, taking a pen from his pocket and clicking
to ready it for notes.
“I have a question. How did you know where to find us last night?” I ask. “And Cal, how did you get there, too?”
Brant looks to Cal, and once Cal nods, Brant begins. “Right after you called me from the church, I got the footage from the airport. Once I realized it was Felton, I reached out to Cal immediately. Something was definitely wrong with that situation, and we were going out to Felton’s to confront him about it. On the way over, I realized you hadn’t called me back to say you made it to his house. We did a quick run through of the place, and when Cal noticed the car there but no one home, he went straight for the boat shed. The boat was missing, and he knew where to go from there.”
“I think if there are any answers to be found, they’re going to be at Dad’s house. The first place I’d look is the Just in Case box,” Cal suggests.
“I agree,” Brant says. “I’m actually waiting for the warrant to be signed.”
“Don’t worry about a warrant. I’ll consent to a search,” Cal says.
Brant nods. “That’ll help to get this done faster. Thanks.”
“What’s the Just in Case box?” I ask.
“It’s a lock box that Dad kept just in case something happened to him. There’s a key, but I have to go through an act of Congress to get to it. The stipulation is that it can only be opened if something happened to him.”
“Then that’s where we’ll start,” Brant says. “If it’s okay, I’ll help myself to another cup of coffee while you two get dressed?”
“Help yourself to anything: food, coffee, TV,” I offer, finishing up my mug and placing it in the sink.
“Hey,” Brant says, stopping me in my tracks. “You look pretty good for nearly getting murdered last night.”
“Let’s just say my near death experience gave me new enthusiasm for living,” I utter with a slight smile.
“I can relate. See you in a few,” Brant says, propping his feet on my coffee table while aiming the remote at the television. As soon as Cal and I are ready, Brant chauffeurs us to Felton’s in his work car.
It’s incredibly eerie, and uneasiness and dread consume me as we enter Felton’s house. Everything is just as it was when I was last there, down to the sheets and blanket remaining on the sofa. Hard to believe that as I slept there, Felton was secretly plotting my demise. A shudder tears through my body.
Cal and Brant temporarily disappear into the office/hobby room, and Cal returns holding a small, portable lock box. “Well, this isn’t going to be much fun,” he says, setting it on the kitchen table.
“Because?” Brant questions.
“Because he wanted to make it as difficult as possible for me to get into it so I wouldn’t be tempted to open it prematurely. The first thing I’m supposed to do is go outside to his tool shed and look for the blue coffee can on the third shelf. Inside is a map of where to dig for the next clue,” Cal says.
“Did you ever go searching for it before today?” I wonder out loud.
“Nah. Dad would know what I was up to if I started digging up the yard. It wasn’t worth it. Guess I’ll head outside,” Cal says with hesitation.
“Or we can try these,” Brant says, jingling a key ring brimming with an assortment of various shapes and sizes.
“Or we can try that,” Cal agrees. “Dad always kept the original key on his person.”
“I thought we might need it, so I took it from evidence.”
Cal nods, taking the key ring from Brant’s outstretched hand. He fumbles through the collection until he finds one he believes will open the box. The tumbler turns easily, and the latch clicks as it releases. With bated breath, we anxiously watch as Cal opens the lid. Inside is a stack of cash, some documents, and perched on the very top is a handwritten note.
The priest knows my guilt, and he shares the blame. If I’m gone, find him.
Make him explain.
“Father Donnelly?” I ask. Cal nods.
“Has to be. The two of them go way back.”
“I’ll send a unit to pick him up. We’ll keep searching through this stuff until they get him to the station, if that’s okay with you, Cal?” Brant asks.
“Of course. Yes. Whatever you need,” Cal answers.
“Good.” Brant calls into the station and asks the dispatcher to send a police car to the church to pick up Father Donnelly for questioning. Once he’s finished with his instructions, he moves towards the office. “Something in there caught my eye. Do you mind?” he asks Cal.
“Not at all,” Cal says, following him into the cluttered room. I opt to stand in the doorway for two reasons: one, because it’s incredibly cramped in there; and two, because the room gives me the chills, but I’m not brave enough to hang out by myself in the other part of the house.
After the dust settles from his yanking open the rust colored curtains, Brant goes straight for the desk chair and sits. He pulls a huge file folder from one of the boxes and plops it on the desk. “We haven’t used these file folders in ages. I have a feeling I know exactly what this is.” He turns it around so he can see the front. Marked plain as day on the tab, as well as across the midsection of the folder itself is Nuit Rouge.
Brant pulls a photo from a massive stack of 8x10s and studies it carefully. He lowers it to look my way.
“No,” I say, my heart suddenly thudding in my chest. He places the picture flat on the desk and pushes it in my direction. I’m nearly trembling when I take the few shaky steps to pick up the photo. Gasping, I throw my hand to my mouth. “He lied,” I say with disbelief.
“What are you talking about?” Cal asks, positioning himself to see what I’m seeing.
“The crime scene I saw in my mind. This is it. This woman and this man were in the parlor in my vision, but look, the white dress is exactly the same, but the broach is gone. Her hair is the same style, the wounds are in the same place, her makeup… Cal, I saw this!”
Brant continues to flip through photos, laying each new one that further corroborates my visions in front of me. “This is the parlor. No bodies, but look! Peacock feathers in a vase.” Part of me is excited because I feel validated, but the larger part of me is desperately trying to hold it together because I’m freaked the hell out.
Brant withholds some of the more gory photos from me, but as I recall to him what I saw in the dreams, he nods whenever he finds a picture that matches my descriptions.
“The only thing you don’t have is the broach, the gold band, and the white shawl,” I comment. No longer caring about the clutter, I plop right onto a dilapidated folding chair before losing my ability to stand on my own two feet. Brant squints like he’s in deep thought before turning a final picture in my direction. It’s not a white fringed shawl; it’s a bloody white blanket.
Brant digs through the box the file folder came out of to retrieve a brown manila envelope. He opens it and pours the contents onto the top of the pictures. The rhinestone broach and the gold ring tumble out with a few shell casings. He shakes his head. “Looks like someone was definitely on the take.”
A stone faced Cal stares at the trinkets. “I swear I knew nothing about any of this.”
Brant’s phone buzzes loudly, and he answers before anything more can be said. “Got him?” he asks into the microphone without any of the customary formalities associated with phone decorum. “On our way.”
“Son of a bitch,” he says, collecting the assortment scattered across the desk and tossing it into the cardboard box they originally came out of before taking the entire thing with us. “Let’s see if we can get some answers.”
“We don’t normally allow things like this to happen during an investigation, but since Father Donnelly refuses to speak to anyone unless you two are present, we’re going to make an exception,” Brant says as he walks me and Cal down a long cinderblock corridor.
“Anything we need to know before going in there?” I ask.
“Just try to stay as quiet as possible. If he directs any questions to you, look
at me. If I nod, answer. If I don’t, let it go,” Brant instructs.
I’m expecting to see a tiny room with a metal table bolted to the floor, a couple of chairs and a huge two way mirror. Instead, we’re ushered into a very nice meeting room with rolling orthopedic chairs and a coffee bar. Father Donnelly’s portly body is wedged into one of the chairs, and a jolly grin is upon his face. If it weren’t for the unorthodox circumstances, you’d swear he was just there for a friendly visit.
“Kids,” he says when Cal and I walk into the room.
“Father,” we say simultaneously.
Everything is quiet for a few seconds, and finally, Father Donnelly speaks up. “I’m sorry to hear about Felton, Cal, and your ex-husband, Cheyenne.”
We nod.
Brant starts a recorder then begins the questioning. “We’re not going to beat around the bush here, Father. Felton Gage left a note behind stating that you know the answers to one of the area’s biggest mysteries.” He consults a piece of paper in front of him. “His exact words are: the priest knows my guilt, and he shares the blame. If I’m gone, find him. Make him explain.”
“Well, obviously I have no clue what he’s talking about,” Father Donnelly says stuttering through most of the sentence.
Brant gives him a stone cold look. “I’m just doing this as a courtesy—a favor, if you will. You see, Felton left very detailed records for us to go through. I have them sitting on my desk right there in the other room. Will it be tedious to read through all of the mess? Yes, but necessary. See, if you just spill the beans about what you know, you’ll save me and my people a lot of grunt work. The DA and I love when we’re spared grunt work. So much so that perhaps we could reward the person who makes our jobs less—what’s the word?--difficult, I suppose you’d say? Yes, a nice reward could be in that person’s future.”
Father Donnelly is bright red as he ponders what Brant has told him. Cal and I know this is a huge bluff and that there really are no secret files. Even though I’m knee deep in this case, I’m in awe of Brant’s interrogation techniques. He’s a damned good cop.
Broken Bayou Page 17
