“Felton says you share his guilt. Is it because he confided his secrets to you and you held them in even though the law obligates you to divulge them?” Brant asks.
Father Donnelly presses his forehead into his hands. “I only wish it were so simple.” When he raises his head to face us, tears run freely down his rounded cheeks. “I bear guilt and shame that has weighed heavily upon my conscience for over three decades. I’ve committed so many sins that I spend hours a day begging our Savior for forgiveness.”
Stone faced, Brant prompts him to continue.
“I can hardly think of a proper place to start,” Father Donnelly says with a shaky voice.
“Tell us how you became involved with Felton,” Brant offers as a suggested starting point.
“Before I begin, please know that my heart is heavy because I have to lay all of this on you. I won’t even begin to ask for your forgiveness, but please know that my intentions were always good, even when I partook in things I knew were wrong. What I divulge will affect all of you.”
“Let’s get on with it, Father,” Brant prods.
“You don’t understand, Major. Once the secret is revealed, there is no going back.” A very somber Father Donnelly faces me and Cal.
Cal looks around nervously. “What do you mean, Father? I don’t understand.”
Father Donnelly, ignoring the rest of us, shifts his chair closer to Cal so he can look him directly in the eye. “Yes, I’m a man of the cloth, but all in all, I’m just a man—a mortal who makes mistakes, a person who often struggles with unfulfilled needs and wants. These needs and wants are easier to live without the older I get, but I joined the priesthood at a very young age. I was fresh out of seminary when I was called to serve at a little church down the bayou. One of the parishioners was a very lovely young woman by the name of Gretchen Belanger.” His gaze drifts from Cal to some random spot in the room. “She was the most beautiful woman I ever laid eyes on. She was always smiling, eager to serve the church, and smart as a whip. She was perfect in every way.” Father Donnelly returns his gaze to Cal. “I developed feelings for her—feelings unlike anything I’d ever felt before, and when she confided that she loved me as well, my heart nearly burst with joy. But, I had my obligation to the church that I had to fulfill.”
“What does any of this have to do with my dad?” Cal interrupts.
Father Donnelly nods. “I’m getting there. My flesh was weak, and with reckless abandon, we made love.” He hangs his head in disgrace. “I broke my celibacy vow, but worse than that, I made her with child. I struggled for a long time about what I should do about it—two years to be exact. Her family abandoned her, but she loved that baby so much that she had no problem raising it on her own. She followed me to my new church, where every Sunday she’d attend with the little one, thereby presenting me with the gift of seeing that beautiful child who was half mine. I was going to leave the church for her. In fact, I was on my way to tell her when I was called by Felton to give last rites to an individual he found dying in an alley. It broke my heart when I found out it was Gretchen. Beside her, watching as she drew her last breath, was our frightened little one.”
Hearing the story Father Donnelly tells is heartbreaking. I reach for a tissue to wipe at my eyes.
“Here I was, a young priest with no other skills, no way to care for a young child, watching the love of my life wilt away from stab wounds left by a robber who murdered her for seventeen dollars. Felton didn’t call in the case. You see, he left me alone for a while with Gretchen, and eventually, he came back with the suspect. When he emptied out the man’s pockets, he found the money and her watch. He put the suspect in the back of his squad car, and then found me a sobbing mess while holding the child. He was a smart guy, and he knew right away that something was up. I confessed everything to him, because frankly, at that point in time, I didn’t care if I lived or if I died.”
“What happened next?” Brant asks after a few moments of silence.
“Felton suggested something to me. Normally, kids such as those were sent to foster homes or orphanages. Many were abused, tortured, and never given a fair shake in life. He said that as long as the child was young enough, and there was no family looking for it, there was no reason why we couldn’t place the child ourselves in the homes of good Christian families.”
“My dad helped you give the kid away?” Cal demands.
“Some, but not this one.”
Cal looks sick. “What are you saying?”
“Felton raised you as his own. It was the only way I could stay involved in your life, yet remain in the priesthood.”
“No, I’m sorry, but it can’t be. I’ve got records. I’ve got pictures of my mother. I’ve got…”
“They’re all fakes. You were the first one—the one he experimented with to see if we could get away with it.”
Cal slams his fists against the table. “And you let him! You let him use me as a guinea pig! Your own flesh and blood!”
“He took good care of you, and you know it. You never wanted for anything, Cal. Felton was a good father to you,” Father Donnelly asserts.
“He was a baby thief! You just admitted it! Just exactly how did this child peddling ring of yours work?” Cal demands.
Father Donnelly nervously twiddles his thumbs. “Aren’t you even the least bit happy to know that I’m your father?”
“Are you kidding me? You robbed me of the life I was supposed to have.”
“I saved you from a life of hell,” he shoots back.
“No, you saved yourself from hell on Earth, but it’s clear you’ve bought yourself a one way ticket to eternal damnation. Everything about my life is a lie. All of those children you and Felton stole to put into other homes, their lives are lies. You disgust me.”
“I understand your reaction, but son, it really was for the best. All children placed went to much better homes than they would have if they’d been left as wards of the state. The children were young enough to have their memories manipulated, so they didn’t even remember the bad things that happened to them. They had no one, and we gave them hope, love, and security. But then something unexpected happened.”
“What was that?” Brant asks.
“Cheyenne came to town and started having those dreams,” Father Donnelly answers.
“How did my dreams affect your side business?” I ask.
“Felton figured it out when you started reciting details about the case. Only two people knew that two of the bodies started out in the parlor. Felton and the little girl who hid from the gunfire only to come down and catch him moving the bodies.” The scene slams back into my memory, and any mental blocks that I had before are now gone. I begin to tremble as the tragedy unfolds before my eyes. My speech gets progressively faster and faster as I recall the events of that night.
“Oh, my God. I was there—in the upstairs playroom. My mother wanted me with her because I was getting over an illness. I wore a long white nightgown and carried a soft yarn blanket—it was white with fringes…,” I say with disbelief. “The shawl. It was my blanket. I’m remembering. I heard the shots, but I thought they were fireworks. I didn’t want to miss them, so I sneaked onto the balcony. The shots continued to sound, but the sky never lit up. Disappointed, I walked back inside. Everything was over by then. The guys had already finished the massacre and taken off. Blood—it was everywhere. I slid in it when I went to the ballroom. I kept crying for my mother while searching through the bodies for my parents.
“Something crashed down in the parlor, startling me. It was my mother! She’d heard my cries but couldn’t come to me, so she knocked something over so I could find her. My father was on top of her…” I shake my head. “I still can’t make out his face, but hers. Oh, she was so beautiful. I have her eyes. She kept telling me to go upstairs. To hide. To run away, but I didn’t want to leave her behind. I heard someone coming in front door, so I did what she told me. I ran up the back staircase and hid in one of the bedroom
closets. Everything is kind of sketchy after that.” My eyes dart rapidly as though I’m chasing the memory as it shoots around the room. “Gray ghost! Gray ghost took me from the closet. It was Felton wearing a gray uniform.”
“That would have been the right color for that time period,” Brant affirms.
“The black ghost…” I look accusingly at Father Donnelly. “You and I were in a car—a big black sedan with no seatbelts—an older model car. You were playing that music. Oh, my God,” I whisper. “How can I have those memories locked inside, yet have memories of the same time period with the people who raised me? Explain it to me!” I demand.
Father Donnelly’s tone is much more timid than it was previously. “Like mentioned before, there were many criteria that had to be met. The children had to be of a certain age, one that the new parents could easily override the previous memories with false ones. All of the children we placed went to good homes. I thoroughly researched them myself. They paid for the documents, the doctored photos, and a fee for placement. It wasn’t to be greedy, you see, it was to make sure they were willing to go to any lengths to make sure the child was well provided for. I don’t know what Felton did with his portion, but every cent of my share went to the church.”
“So these people just lined up to buy children? How can you say they were good candidates, no matter how much money they spent?”
“Cheyenne, your parents wanted nothing more than to be parents. They tried, but your poor mother miscarried multiple times, two of which resulted in still born babies. Can you imagine that heartache? When I say I thoroughly researched the candidates, I mean it. I remember all of their stories.”
I begin to cry as I shake my head. “It wasn’t right.”
“Were you treated well?”
“That’s beside the point,” I argue.
“Did you love your parents?” he asks.
“I don’t remember because you stole them from me. The people who raised me aren’t my parents. My parents died at Azalea Downs.”
“No, the murderers stole your parents, Cheyenne. I made sure you went to a good home because there was no one left to raise you.”
I shake my head. “My mother was alive when Felton brought me to you. She was reaching out for me.”
“No, there were very strict rules about the children. They had to be orphaned.”
“Brant, may I see the picture of the crime scene? The one that shows where my mother was positioned.”
He rummages through some things and produces the photograph. I point to it. “My mother and father were shot in the parlor. My mother had one gunshot wound to her abdomen when I saw her. She has two in this picture. One to her abdomen and one to her chest—center mass. Your baby finder was making kids orphans when they actually weren’t.”
“No,” Father Donnelly says.
“She was in the parlor with one wound! How did she end up in the heap with the others with an additional wound? Nothing else makes sense. Felton murdered my mother so he could peddle me off like some piece of junk.”
“No, it was never like that,” Father Donnelly insists.
“The spare casings we found with the jewelry corroborate this,” Brant says.
“And what about our families? You can’t tell me that we didn’t have other family members willing to look after us,” I demand.
“I can answer why no one came looking for you, Cheyenne,” Brant says, tossing down case notes and a couple of photos. He begins to read from the file. “The youngest victim, four year old Cynthia Badeaux, is presumed to be deceased. A bloodied blanket was found in the backseat of the getaway vehicle the assailants were driving, but no trace of the child has been found. This is an update from two years later: Missing child from Nuit Rouge murders now officially listed as deceased. Case closed. Signed by none other than Detective Felton Gage.”
“I don’t remember the news articles or anything else I researched mentioning a missing child,” I say.
“That’s because Felton did his best to keep that detail to a minimum. He knew how to work the reporters, playing up the fact that the tragedy was horrific enough, much less to sensationalize the possible murder of a child. It was important for people to put the event behind them and to move on. The whole area was basically a ghost town for a month afterwards because people were scared to leave their homes.”
I shake my head. “Wow. You truly think you’re a savior—a beacon of all things great?”
“I never proclaimed to be.”
“Where am I from? Where do I get information about my real family?” I demand.
Father Donnelly hangs his head. “The Badeauxs are from New Orleans.”
“And my family?” Cal asks.
“I’m your family.”
“It’s too early for that stuff, Padre. I’m asking about my mother’s family.”
“The Belangers used to live in Cypress Grove.”
“I want a DNA test before this father thing goes any further,” Cal demands.
“Anything you wish, but without a doubt, you are my son.”
Brant interrupts, “Getting back to the here and now, your official statement is that Felton Gage figured out that Cheyenne Douglas was one of the children he sold on the black market after her parents were murdered the evening of the Nuit Rouge murders. He concocted a scheme to make it appear as though she had died to keep family members from looking for her and to justify her disappearance. Upon her returning to town as an adult, he felt threatened because of her recollections, so he decided to get rid of her. He opted to make it appear as though Cheyenne left town with her ex-husband, all the while intending to murder them and hide their bodies.”
“Yes,” Father Donnelly affirms.
I run my hands over my eyes. “This is crazy. It can’t be real.”
“I feel the same way,” Cal says, just as wearily as me.
“Cal…,” Father Donnelly calls.
“Is that even my name?” he demands.
“It is. Your mother allowed me to pick your name. I have her picture. It’s quite worn from all the years of my handling it, but this is your mom.” He reaches into the top pocket of his jacket and pulls out a pouch. Inside are a rosary, a small vial of holy water, and the tattered picture. He passes it to Cal. I can tell he’s holding back his emotions from the size of the lump in his throat.
“She’s so beautiful,” he manages to say.
“Indeed. Didn’t I tell you that she was the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on? I was smitten the moment I saw her.”
“I wish I could have known her,” Cal says, lightly tracing her face with his finger.
“I wish you could’ve too, son.”
“What happened to her killer?” Cal inquires.
“Justice was served,” Father Donnelly says.
Brant shifts in his seat. “I’m sure it was, Felton-style if I were to guess from your tone.” Father Donnelly nods. “So, over the years, how many children did you two makeshift social workers place?”
“Ten.”
“I’m going to need all the information you can give me on those children. They have a right to know their histories,” Brant says.
“But they were all placed in better homes,” Father Donnelly says defensively.
“Better than her birth mother?” he remarks, raising his voice and sitting straighter in his chair. “You know, the one Felton put a bullet in so he could make a few extra dollars. How many more of those ten children have the same story, Father?”
“I don’t know anything about that part. I just searched out the prospective families and transported the children to them. Felton handled everything else.”
“And now he’s gone, so it’s all on you,” Brant barks.
Father Donnelly stoically raises his head and sits straight in his chair. “I’ve been waiting for this since the day Felton Gage and I crossed paths. I’ve made my peace with God, my son, and one of the children we placed. I’m ready for whatever awaits me.”
“However it must be is how it shall be.” He stands and turns his outstretched wrists to Brant.
“No need for all that, Father. Come on. Follow me to the booking desk.”
Father Donnelly stops just as he’s about to cross the threshold. “Cal, I do hope you’ll forgive me one day, and that you’ll keep in touch. Seeing you grow up has been one of the highlights of my life. I’m proud of the man you’ve become.”
“I wouldn’t hold my breath, but you never know what a day holds,” Cal offers.
Father Donnelly nods. “You’ll be in my prayers, son. I love you. I’ll always love you,” he says as he shuffles down the hall thanks to Brant’s nudging.
Cal grabs my hand under the table and squeezes it hard. I see that he’s fighting back tears, but I’m not afraid to let mine flow. He pulls me to him, and once we’re locked in a deep embrace, we stay that way for a while. In a matter of minutes we became strangers to ourselves. Our lives are nothing more than elaborate ruses, and we are simply puppets used in a sick game of greed and God-playing. We’ve been through so much, and I know we’ll overcome this eventually. The question is where do we go from here?
Chapter Fifteen
Cal and I spend the rest of the evening at my apartment. We’re together, but we barely speak, opting to spend the time in silent deliberation. We even go to bed at different times, but both awaken with a start thanks to Brant. I quickly throw on a pair of jeans and a sweater then open the front door to find him hard at work on the camera system.
“What are you doing, and why are you doing it so early? Don’t you ever sleep?” I question.
“I sleep when the mysteries are solved. There’s one that’s still bugging me.”
“The secret admirer?”
“No, I solved that last night. I didn’t want to call you because you had enough to process after Father Donnelly’s confession.” He points to a small screwdriver on the wrought iron table and signals for me to hand it over. “I paid a visit to your favorite student Billy, and I got all the information I needed.”
Broken Bayou Page 18
