by Debra
Murray reattached the rope he’d just mended to the rear of the boat, and then headed across the dock and through the gate, locking it behind him. The RV that he and Patrick lived in was across the parking lot. It was tiny but it served. He slept in the bedroom and the boy slept on the couch.
Murray opened the door quietly, frowning to find it unlocked. Patrick always promised to lock the door before he went to sleep, but he was barely eighteen. He had trouble remembering to close the door, much less lock it.
The interior of the RV was dark and quiet. It was after ten o’clock on a school night. His son should be home studying or in bed. Irritated and a little worried, Murray dialed Patrick’s number. No answer. Then before the display went off, the phone rang.
“Patrick, where are you?” he snapped.
“Murray Cho?” a familiar voice said. It was the same man who’d sent him into Tristan’s house for the laptop.
Murray’s heart pounded. “Where’s Patrick? If you’ve done something to him—”
“Listen to me,” the voice said. “We’ve got your son. He’s alive—for now.”
“What? For now? What’s going on? I want to speak to him.”
“I said listen! You did a good job of getting the laptop. Now we’ve got another job for you. DuChaud’s wife is back in the DuChaud house, by herself. My boss is wondering why she didn’t stay with her mother-in-law. What do you know about Tristan DuChaud?”
The dread that had squeezed his chest the first time the man had called him seized him again. “DuChaud?” Murray stammered. “He’s dead.”
“Is he?” the voice on the phone asked. “How do you know?”
“Th-there was a funeral,” Murray stammered. “Please. Let me talk to Patrick.”
“We’ll make you a deal. You get us proof that DuChaud is alive and we won’t kill your son.”
Murray’s heart seized in terror at the man’s words. “No! Please! I’ll do anything, but don’t hurt my son.”
The man sighed. “Come on, Cho. You think begging me is going to do any good? I’ve got orders from my boss to get this information or my ass is on the line. I picked you because you’re known around that area and nobody would think it unusual if you were seen around the dock or the DuChaud house.”
“I—I don’t understand,” Murray stammered.
“Look, we’re not bad people. We don’t want to hurt you or your kid, but if we don’t get this job done it’s going to hurt us—permanently. That’s another reason I picked you. Because you have a kid, you’re motivated. So get me some proof. If he’s alive, my boss wants to see proof. If he’s dead—” The man gave a little snort. “That’ll be harder to prove.”
“Who’s your boss?”
“Nope. Now, Cho, you should know I can’t tell you that. Just do what you’re told and don’t ask questions.”
Murray shook his head numbly. He had no choice. His son’s life was on the line.
“We’ll take care of your son as long as we can. You need to concentrate on what I’m saying.”
Murray did his best to remember what the man had said the boss wanted. “Y-your boss wants proof Tristan DuChaud is alive? But he’s dead. They buried his body. I can’t prove he’s alive.”
“You’re not helping yourself or your boy by arguing. We’re going to check with you every day and find out what you’re doing. This better not take long, Cho. And if you even think about going to the authorities, your son will suffer, and I do mean suffer.” The phone went dead. The caller had hung up.
Murray stared at the phone’s screen until it went black while the man’s voice echoed in his ears. You get us proof...and we won’t kill your son.
He had to do something. Had to rescue Patrick. But how? How could he prove that a dead man was alive?
* * *
IT WAS AT DUSK, the end of the day, when she missed Tristan the most. A thousand years ago, someone in Britain had known enough about loneliness to name this time of day the gloaming. A little later, it was called eventide. These days, most people said twilight or dusk. Pretty words, but depressing, according to Sandy DuChaud.
Sandy preferred the sunrise. The beginning of the day. Each rising sun was a new promise, a bright beginning that called to her. She’d loved to roust Tristan out of bed, thrust a hot mug of coffee into his hand and make him watch the sunrise with her. And he in turn had delighted in making her take a walk with him at sunset. With Tristan at her side, she’d begun to get over her innate sadness at the fading of the sun’s light.
But Tristan was gone now, and even the sunrise didn’t cheer her.
“Do you know what today is, bean?” Sandy asked her unborn baby as she rubbed the sore spot on her baby bump where he liked to kick. “No? Little bean, you need to keep up. It’s been two months since your daddy died—” Her voice gave out and her breath caught in a sob.
“Come on,” she said. “We need to unpack.” Yesterday afternoon, she’d walked into their house on the outskirts of Bonne Chance, Louisiana, for the first time since the day after her husband’s funeral. It had been so quiet, so empty, so lonely.
At first, she had been overwhelmed with grief and sadness that Tristan wasn’t there and would never be there again. But as she’d stood looking out the French doors past the patio and the driveway to the graceful, drooping trees, vines and Spanish moss of Bayou Bonne Chance, she’d felt a serenity inside her like nothing she’d ever felt before.
The faint sound of the surf and the mellow ring of the wind chimes on the patio washed over her, adding to her peace and calm.
This was why she’d come back to Bonne Chance and their home and all the memories, good and bad. She could hear Tristan’s laughter in the organic, spiritual sounds of nature. It called to her as the sun always had.
Forgetting about unpacking, she slid open the French doors and walked outside. The air in June seldom got cool in South Louisiana. Oh, sometimes a storm would send a chilly breeze in from the Gulf. But anyone who lived in the Deep South knew that chilly and cool were not the same thing.
Cool was pleasant—afternoons on the front porch with the ceiling fan rotating, watermelon or iced tea and desultory conversation about nothing more important than how well the fish were biting. Chilly, on the other hand, was a damp breeze that cut through any material, even wool, and made fingers and toes stiff and cold.
“We seem to be all about word choices today, bean,” she said. Lifting her head, she let the evening breeze blow her hair back from her face. When she opened her eyes, there was still a faint pink glow in the western sky.
“Okay. Yes. The sunset is kind of pretty,” she admitted reluctantly. “I’ll give you that. But it will be completely dark in less than fifteen minutes. I’d planned to walk over to the dock and back this afternoon, but I let the time get away from me. It’s too close to dark now.”
She’d walked over there late the day before. She still wasn’t sure why. Maybe hoping to feel Tristan’s presence there, where he’d spent so much time. That dock had been his second favorite place all through his childhood. Boudreau’s cabin had been his first.
Tristan had always liked swimming in the Gulf this time of the day. He’d pointed out to her that as the sun went down, everything calmed. The breezes that normally seemed to carry sound died, the birds and animals quieted, and the waters of the Gulf became calm and slick as glass. He’d said it was as if the whole world hushed in respect for vespers.
Sandy recalled the dark form she’d seen in the water, diving and swimming out beyond the shallows at the dock. She’d been looking into the setting sun and so all she could see was a sinuous silhouette sliding between the waves. She’d thought it was a dolphin.
But now, thinking back, she could convince herself it looked human.
The sky was getting darker every second. As Sandy turned back toward the house, a faint whispering stopped her. It sounded like voices.
She went still, listening. Disturbed by her sudden anxiety, the baby kicked. Sandy pat
ted her belly reassuringly.
Within a few seconds, the sounds became repetitive and she realized her ears had played tricks on her. The susurrus noise wasn’t voices. It was leaves and twigs rustling as something or someone moved through the tangled jungle of the swamp. Something or someone large.
But who—or what? And was it as close as it sounded?
She shivered. There were a lot of wild animals in the swamp, some very large, like alligators or bears. But she’d lived here all her life. It wasn’t the prospect of meeting a wild animal that made her tremble.
It was the memory of the dark form swimming gracefully in the Gulf. Had it been a person? Who would be swimming at dusk and then walking through the swamp, the way Tristan once had?
No. She had to stop imagining that each breeze that lifted the curtains or each murmur of waves licking the shore could be Tristan—or his ghost.
There had been nothing ghostly about whatever was moving through the tangle of trees and vines just now. Those sounds were real.
There was no reason she could think of for anyone to be on DuChaud property, not at this time of day—or any time of day, actually. The DuChaud’s home was eight miles from the town of Bonne Chance. Everybody knew where the beautiful hand-built house was, but the road from town turned from asphalt to shells and gravel about two miles away and ended at the DuChaud’s patio. It was not a road that invited casual drivers.
A different noise broke the silence of the early darkness, again faint, but recognizable. The sound of snapping twigs and crunching leaves.
Whatever or whoever was out there was on the move and didn’t care who heard him. Sandy inched her way backward, away from the trees and toward her house, both hands cradling her tummy protectively. She ran through the French doors as if the hounds of hell were nipping at her heels, locked them and set the alarm.
Only then did she breathe a sigh of relief. “Sorry, bean,” she muttered. “I know it’s silly, but I think I scared myself.”
All at once, her eyes began stinging. Blinking furiously, she tried to make the tears disappear, but they still welled and slipped down her cheeks.
“Damn it, I don’t want to be afraid in my house. But like it or not, you and I are here alone. We have to be careful. Besides, that’s our dock—your daddy’s dock,” she said, her voice tightening with grief.
“Oh, Tristan,” she whispered. “I need you so much. I’m doing my best to live without you. Why are you still. Right. Here?” She slapped her forehead with two stiff fingers.
“Right here in the very front of my brain. Why aren’t you fading, like a perfect memory should—” Her voice cracked and a couple of sobs escaped her throat. She pressed her lips together, hoping to hold in any more sobs. She didn’t want to cry. The more upset she got, the more restless the little bean.
In all the years she’d been married to Tristan, in all the years she’d known him before that—essentially their whole lives—she’d never been afraid of anything. But the sound of footsteps had spooked her.
“Don’t worry, bean. I’m not turning into a scaredy-cat. I came back here for the peace and quiet, and no alligator or poacher—or whatever that was—is going to scare me away.” Her brave words made her feel better, and as she relaxed, she realized how tired she was.
Yawning, she checked the alarm system and armed the doors and windows, then headed toward the master bedroom.
As she passed the closed door to her office, which they’d converted into a nursery, she realized she hadn’t even thought about checking her email. Too distracted by memories, she supposed.
When she turned on the light, the desktop was empty. Her laptop wasn’t there, where it always sat. Automatically, she glanced around as if it might have gotten set aside by someone during the time she’d been in Baton Rouge with her mother-in-law.
But by whom? And when? A chill ran down her spine at the thought of someone coming into her house.
No, she told herself. Don’t start panicking. Think rationally about who of all the people who must have had access to the house could have done it. Obviously Maddy Tierney or Zach Winter, but Maddy would have told her, right? So...people from the crime scene unit? But all the evidence of Maddy’s kidnapping by the captain of the Pleiades Seagull was in the master bedroom. Why would they need to take her laptop computer?
But if not them? Then she had a thought that sent her heart hammering. What if it had been Tristan? What if he was out there, hiding, and needed something from the laptop.
“Stop it!” she cried. “You can’t go there every time something odd happens or you hear a strange sound. He’s dead and nothing is going to bring him back to life!” Blinking, she forced away all her silly romantic thoughts of Tristan out there somewhere, alive and hurt.
Forget all the evidence about how he had died. Forget everything except one fact. He’d gone overboard into the dark, dangerous water and had never come out. That, if nothing else, told her he was really dead. If he were still alive, he would move heaven and earth to get to her. Tristan would die before he’d allow her to believe he was dead.
With a quick shake of her head, she forced away thoughts of Tristan and concentrated on the missing laptop.
Before she jumped to any conclusions, she should check with Maddy and Zach. They may have had to confiscate it so the hard drive and memory cards could be reviewed.
Maybe Homeland Security or the NSA had needed it for evidence. That made sense, except for the fact that there was nothing on her laptop that could possibly be interesting to anyone other than herself.
She checked her watch. It was just after ten. That was eleven Eastern time. She hesitated for a second, then pulled out her phone. Maddy had told her to call anytime if she needed anything.
When her friend answered, she blurted out, “Maddy, did you or Zach take my laptop?”
“What? Sandy? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Did either of you take my computer, or see someone else take it?”
“It’s not there?”
“No. It always sits on my desk in the nursery. Always. And it’s not there.”
“No, we didn’t. We searched it. Remember, you gave us the password. We went through all the saved files, looking for anything that might have been related to Tristan’s death or the smuggling, but it was there when I left.” Maddy paused for a beat. “Have you seen any other signs that someone has been in your house?”
Sandy’s tummy did a flip, which woke up the baby. He wriggled and kicked. “I don’t think so. The nursery is the only room I hadn’t been in. You’re sure it was here when you guys left?”
“I am,” Maddy said. “Did you check with the crime scene unit or the sheriff?”
“No,” Sandy said. “I called you first.”
“Well, you need to call them. If they took it you should have gotten a receipt, but people forget things.”
“So it disappeared after you left.” She paused, thinking. “Wait. Come to think of it, the alarm wasn’t set when I came in yesterday. It didn’t beep.”
“So whoever took the laptop disarmed the alarm. Do a lot of people know the code?”
Sandy shook her head. “Just me and Tristan.”
“Maybe the crime scene team didn’t know how to arm it and didn’t realize you weren’t there.”
“So someone’s been in the house,” Sandy murmured.
“Listen to me, Sandy. It could be nothing, but just to be on the safe side, maybe you should go into town and stay at the hotel, or go back to Baton Rouge.”
“No,” Sandy said. “This was probably some kid.”
“Hold on a minute.”
She heard Maddy talking to Zach, then suddenly the phone went silent. Maddy must have put it on mute. It didn’t matter, because Sandy knew what they were saying. They were discussing whether there was still any danger to Sandy or anyone else in Bonne Chance.
“Maddy—” Sandy muttered. “Come on. Hurry up.”
Finally Maddy unmuted her phone
. “Sandy, if anything happens, call us, okay? We’re not on the case anymore, but it hasn’t been closed. So either Homeland Security or the NSA might reactivate it.”
That quickly, the confidence that Sandy had in knowing that Homeland Security and the NSA had finished with Bonne Chance, the smugglers and Tristan’s death drained away. “Why would they do that?”
Maddy hesitated—not for long, but it was long enough for Sandy to notice. “Maddy? You told me all the smugglers were arrested and the captain was killed by Boudreau. I thought that was the end of it.”
“There are some things that we’re not allowed to talk about. There are some things we’re not even allowed to know.”
“But you do know, don’t you? I knew you and Zach weren’t telling me everything. There’s more to Tristan’s death than you told me, isn’t there?”
“Sandy, don’t.”
“Maddy, I swear I will come over there and wring your neck if you don’t tell me what you know.”
“Hang on a minute.”
“No! Wait—” But Maddy was gone. Sandy waited impatiently. After about twenty seconds, she came back on the line.
“Sandy, listen carefully, because I can only say this once. It’s possible—just possible—that your husband’s death was not an accident.”
Sandy sat down. It was a good thing there was a chair right there. “What? So Zach was right? What happened? Is there some new evidence?”
“Listen to me. We spent a week in your house while we searched for answers to what happened to Tristan and all we could come up with was that his death was suspicious.” Maddy took a breath. “So now Homeland Security is ramping up listening devices as well as working with the Coast Guard to do more spot inspections of the oil rigs. They’re obviously worried that there may be another group out there that’s planning something. Bonne Chance is probably one of the least populated and least noticed places on the Gulf Coast. It doesn’t even have streetlights except on Main Street.”
“I know. Out here, we can barely see lights from the town on clear nights, or if there’s a fire we can see flames and smoke.”
“Well, the darkness and isolation makes it desirable for smugglers.”
