Swept Aside

by Sharon Sala

  When she passed the intersection marking the beginning of the third mile, she began wondering if Nick had made it back to the Vatican. She increased her stride, aware that if they’d left without him, it would be even more important than ever for her to get word to the police. She wouldn’t rest easy until she knew for a fact that Lou Drake was back behind bars.

  As she walked, a shadow passed across the ground in front of her, and she glanced up, watching as a small patch of white fluffy clouds moved between the earth and the sun.

  “Not complaining here, Lord…but we could have used this clear weather last night.”

  Every so often she repeated the phone number Nick had given her, well aware of what was riding on the safe delivery of his message. Then her thoughts would slide to Nick himself. She wouldn’t let herself think beyond the immediacy of the moment. Yes, they’d made love. And no, she didn’t want to lose the first man she’d been attracted to in years. But she wasn’t sure he was really hers to lose. Had they come together simply out of relief and a need to reaffirm their lives when they’d come so close to losing them? Or had they made love because there was really something between them that they could build on?

  She wanted a forever kind of love, like her parents had enjoyed—like her Nonna and Pappa had known. But did sharing a few days in hell with a man who was good to her constitute the beginning of a relationship? She didn’t know, and she couldn’t worry about it—not yet. Not until everyone was safe.

  So she kept on walking with her head down and her bare feet slapping the steamy blacktop. The only hint she had of what time it might be was the gnawing hunger in her belly.

  By the time she reached the driveway that led to Louis’s house, the soles of her feet were sore and burning. Stepping off the blacktop onto dirt was a huge relief. But as she began the quarter-mile trek to his house, the relief soon gave way to more misery. Walking barefoot in dirt consisting mostly of gravel and drying ruts was, if possible, an even worse trial.

  When the old man’s house finally came into sight, Amalie was on the verge of tears. She hadn’t thought of what she would do if he wasn’t home.

  The single-story low-country house wasn’t nearly as fine as the Vatican, or half as old, but to Amalie, it looked like heaven.

  The light gray siding and black shutters were as neat and trim as Louis Thibideaux’s beard. Just knowing she was within walking distance of comfort and safety made the last one hundred yards far easier to walk.

  As she neared the fence surrounding his yard, a dog began to bay. It was Rounder, Louis’s redbone hound. When he came bounding out to greet her with long ears flapping and his tongue hanging, she couldn’t have been more touched. At last. Something kind and familiar after a week of hell.

  And then the front door opened and Louis emerged. She lifted her hand in greeting, but tears quickly blurred her vision as she saw the look of shock come and go on his face. “Amalie! Cher! What has happened?” he cried, as he came flying down the steps far faster than she would have imagined he could move. “Where is your car? Were you in an accident? Your clothes! Your hair! Mon Dieu…your feet! Your poor little feet!”

  Amalie started to explain, but instead of words, a harsh, ugly sob ripped up her throat. When he put his arms around her, she buried her face against his chest and wept.

  Finally Louis led her to the porch, then into his house, even as she was trying to protest her sorry state and muddy feet, insisting that she would ruin his furniture and floors.

  Louis quickly shushed her concerns, seated her in his most comfortable chair, then pulled up a cane-back chair beside her and took her by the hand.

  “Talk to me.”

  “Could I have a drink of water first?”

  He bolted from the room and came back carrying a tray with a pitcher of water and a crystal drinking glass. He filled the glass with water, ice clinking against the sides as he handed it to her.

  Amalie drank thirstily, not stopping until the glass was empty.

  Louis was horrified. He could not imagine what had befallen her, but now that he had time to look closer, it was obvious it had not just occurred. Whatever she’d gone through had been happening over a period of time. Her clothes were filthy and stained, but the stains were dried into the fabric. Her face, which should have been flushed from the heat, was pale. There were shadows beneath her eyes that he didn’t like, and from the condition of her feet, she appeared to have come a long way on foot.

  When she handed him the glass, he filled it again, then set it beside her on the table.

  “Does your phone work?” Amalie asked.

  “No. Still no phones…but I know that they are working in Bordelaise, so maybe soon. Why, cher? What do you need? You have only to ask and I will give it to you this moment!”

  Once again, Amalie caught herself struggling with tears.

  “I need to ask you to take me into Bordelaise.”

  “Of course. But you must answer some questions for me, as well.” He leaned forward and covered her hand with his. “What has happened to you, my child? Where is your car?”

  “A tree fell on my car last Sunday…the day of the storm.”

  His eyes widened. “But you said nothing to me of this when I visited you.”

  “I know. Remember the prisoners that escaped from the jail?”

  His expression stilled. Fear gripped him so tightly that he was afraid he would not be able to catch his next breath.

  “Yes. Please tell me they did not do this to you,” he whispered.

  Instantly Amalie realized what he must be thinking, that she had been the victim of some kind of assault.

  “Not in the way you mean,” she said quickly. “But they were at my home. In fact, they were there the day you came. It’s why I didn’t invite you inside.”

  Louis bolted up from his chair. His face instantly flushed with shock and anger.

  “No! I cannot believe this! You should have said something to me then. I would have…”

  “…never left my house alive,” she said.

  Her words silenced him. Still shaking in disbelief, he grabbed her hand.

  “Where are they now? Are they after you? How did you get away? Do not worry, cher…I have a gun.”

  “No. No. Nothing like that,” Amalie said. “It’s a long, convoluted story, but they didn’t, although one tried…a man named Lou Drake. But another man—a good man—stopped him. I look like this because when Lou finally came after me, I ran. I lost him in the swamp, then spent the night in the VanAnsels’ old barn. When I woke up, I headed for your house.”

  “But the storm. You were in the swamp last night during the storm?”

  She nodded.

  “Mon Dieu! I cannot believe this horrible tale. I am horrified that you had to endure this on your own.”

  Immediately she thought of Nick, but this wasn’t her story to tell. Until she got word to the proper people, she felt obligated to keep his identity to herself—just in case.

  “I will get the car keys,” he announced. “You must tell Chief Porter of these facts.”

  Amalie stood, then winced as she tested her weight on the soles of her feet again.

  “May I ask two more favors of you?” she asked.

  “Anything,” Louis promised.

  “To use your bathroom, and for something to eat. We ran out of food at the house about a day and a half ago. Except for a bite here and there, I haven’t eaten in—”

  Louis threw his arms around her. This time he was the one who wept. Amalie cried along with him again, but this time it was tears of relief. This nightmare in which she’d been caught was about to come to an end.

  Then, just as quickly as Louis had started crying, it was over. Once again he was all business—albeit a little teary-eyed.

  “You remember my house. You know where the facilities are located. Go. Go. Whatever you need, help yourself. I will make you some food. You will eat on the way into town.”

  “Thank you very much,
Louis.”

  His voice was almost angry as he answered.

  “You do not thank family for such things—and whether you recognize it or not, this is what we are, Amalie Pope. We are family…you and I. You make yourself fresh. I will get food.”

  It occurred to Amalie as he strode out of the room that she’d never seen him in such a light. It was as if in hearing her story, he’d shed his age. She could almost see what a magnificent man he must have been in his prime. Then, as she headed for the bathroom, she amended her thought. He was still a magnificent man.

  And as he’d reminded her, she was no longer alone. Whether Nick became a part of her life or not was an unknown, something for the future. For right now, she was very thankful for this man from her past.

  The ride into town was oddly silent. Louis refrained from questions until she’d had time to finish eating. Amalie wolfed down the two sandwiches he’d made for her out of leftover biscuits and sausage. She was a drink away from the end of a cold bottle of Dr. Pepper when Louis broke his silence.

  “I have to ask this for my own sake,” he said. “You said they did not…that you were not…”

  “No. They didn’t rape me.”

  He sighed. “Thank God. You have endured so much. I could not bear to think that you survived being shot to come home to that.”

  Amalie laid a hand on Louis’s arm as he drove.

  “You don’t know how many times that same thought went through my mind. I kept wondering why this was all happening to me, then had a small revelation in the middle of the crisis.”

  “And what was that?” he asked.

  “On one of the days when I’d taken refuge in Nonna’s bedroom, I found something in the back of her closet. Something I might never have found had I not been in such dire straits.”

  He frowned. “What was that?”

  “There is a secret room on the other side of the inner closet wall.”

  Louis’s eyebrows arched. “And you knew nothing of this before?”

  “I remembered finding the door when I was small. But it was dark inside, and I was little and thought I’d broken the wall. I soon forgot. Did Nonna ever speak of it to you?”

  “No, never,” he said. “What was in it?”

  “It’s not what was in it. It’s what I think it was used for that makes it so amazing. Oh, Louis, there are names written all over one wall. Some scratched into the wood, others written in pencil. One even appears to have been written in blood!”

  “Names of your Pope ancestors?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so. These people only wrote their first names. Few were spelled properly, and many were only an X.”

  He frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “In the history of the South, who only had a first name?”

  “Why, I suppose that would be the slaves, but—” Then he gasped. “Surely you aren’t supposing that slaves were hidden in that room? Your ancestors owned slaves, as did mine. A despicable practice, but it happened.”

  “I know they did once. But I don’t know all the history of my ancestors. It’s very possible that one of them, in later years, became an abolitionist. If the Vatican was once a stop on the Underground Railroad, I want the historical society to know this. It has to be verified, of course, but it was an amazing thing to discover, even when I was so frightened. I found myself empathizing with them as I, too, escaped and then ran for my life.”

  Louis nodded. “I know someone in the Louisiana Historical Society. I’ll help you get started on the verification process, though, you do know you might lose some of your privacy should this come to light, don’t you?”

  Amalie shrugged. “It would be an honor for me to learn I’m right about this.”

  Louis maneuvered past a rather large pothole in the middle of the old blacktop.

  “It is a remarkable discovery, for sure. But back to the immediate issue. When we have finished talking to the police, you will come home with me. I won’t have you in that house alone until we know that those men have been arrested again.”

  Amalie didn’t argue. She had a feeling that, once she delivered her messages, it wouldn’t take long for the escapees to find themselves back in custody. As for staying alone in the Vatican again, she knew she wouldn’t be afraid. She was just one in a long line of enduring people. Like the words that had been scratched into the window ledge in Nonna’s room: We’re still here. Amalie had lived through her own kind of war, and she, too, was still here.

  Then she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. The next thing she knew, Louis was patting her knee and telling her to wake up, that they were driving into Bordelaise.

  Amalie woke immediately, sat up in the seat and ran her fingers through her hair, then wondered why she bothered. Her hair couldn’t look any worse than her clothes. Within minutes they were pulling up to the curb in front of the police department.

  Louis killed the engine.

  “Remember, cher, you’re no longer alone.”

  “Thank you, Louis.”

  Before Louis could get out, she was heading for the door of the building. Her belly was full, and her thirst had been quenched. She might look as if she’d been dragged through hell backward, but that, too, would pass. Right now, she had some information for Chief Porter, and a phone call to make to one Stewart Babcock of the DEA.

  Amalie walked in with Louis right behind her, then beside her.

  “Vera, we need to see the chief. It is a matter of extreme emergency,” Louis announced.

  Vera knew she was staring.

  “Amalie Pope…is that you?”

  Amalie nodded.

  “Yes, it’s me.”

  “Have a seat,” Vera said, then added, “We were all so sorry about what happened to your grandmother, but it’s good to see you up and around. Lots of prayers went up for you after we heard that you’d been shot.”

  “Thank you, but I really need to talk to Chief Porter now,” Amalie said.

  Vera picked up the phone and buzzed Hershel’s office. When he didn’t answer, she frowned.

  “He must have gone out the back door. Hang on and I’ll get him on the radio.”

  At that moment the door opened behind Vera’s desk and the chief walked out.

  “I was on the way down the hall when I heard you buzz my office,” he said. “What’s up?”

  Vera pointed at Amalie and Louis as she stood up.

  “They want to talk to you. Said it was an emergency.”

  Hershel’s mouth gaped.

  “Amalie Pope…is that you?”

  Amalie sighed. Damn. She must look worse than she thought.

  “Yes, it’s me. And I do need to talk to you.”

  “Then come back to my office,” he said, and opened the door for her. When Louis followed, his frown deepened.

  As soon as they were settled, he took a seat behind his desk.

  “You seem to have recovered from your injury, but at the risk of being rude, what the hell happened to you? I didn’t even know you were back. Last I heard, you were still in Texas.”

  “I arrived last Sunday, only a couple of hours ahead of the storm.”

  “Good timing,” Hershel said; then his eyes widened as what she’d said suddenly sank in. “You’ve been out at the house all week?”

  “Yes, and I understand you’re missing some prisoners.”

  His heart dropped. Shit. “Yes, ma’am. I’m sure hoping you’re not going to tell me that they had anything to do with your condition.”

  Louis couldn’t stay quiet any longer.

  “They’ve been holding her hostage since Sunday!”

  Hershel jumped up from the desk. “The hell you say. Excuse my French! Where are they now? Did they—”

  Amalie held up her hand. “I’m not sure where they are. I escaped late yesterday evening. Spent the night in the old VanAnsel barn.”

  Hershel’s eyes widened. “In that storm?”

  She nodded.

  “Holy Mary, Moth
er of God,” Hershel whispered. “Are you all right?” He looked at Louis. “Have you taken her to the E.R. yet? I can call—”

  Again Amalie stopped him. “Please! It’s really important that you hear me out. One of the men who’s with them…he’s not…he didn’t—”

  This time it was the chief who interrupted.

  “Are you talking about Nick Aroyo?” She nodded.

  “I already know.”

  Amalie exhaled slowly. “I need to call his boss.” She rattled off the number, watching as Hershel grabbed the phone and punched the buttons for her, then handed her the receiver without hesitation.

  “Thank you,” Amalie said, listening as the phone began to ring.

  Then a man’s voice sounded in her ear. She felt the urgency in his tone before she got out a word.

  “Chief! Tell me you have good news.”

  Amalie blinked. Caller ID had deceived him.

  “Is this Stewart Babcock?” she asked.

  There was a long moment of silence, then the urgency changed to distance.

  “To whom am I speaking?” he asked.

  “My name is Amalie Pope, and I have a message for you from Nick Aroyo.”

  Stewart Babcock exhaled slowly as relief seeped through his body. This had to mean Aroyo was alive. “I’m listening.”

  “He wants you to know he’s okay…that he’s still with the men. He says that in case something happens to him, he wants you to go to a place in New Orleans off Rampart Street called the Box and Post. He said to tell you that all the information you need is in mailbox 125.”

  Stewart was making notes as they talked.

  “Where is Nick now?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure, but he and the men he was with took me hostage and have been hiding out at my house since last Sunday.”

  “Good Lord! Why didn’t they just leave?”

  “A tree fell on my car during the tornado, so they had nothing to drive. Also, one of the men, Tug French, was badly injured. He was unable to walk, so they’ve been trying to clear off my car and fix it enough to drive ever since their arrival.”

  “You said they were holding you hostage?”