The Gates of Evangeline

by Hester Young

  I sit. I listen. I keep waiting.

  • • •

  MY EYES FLICKER OPEN. I’M curled up on the floor of my son’s bedroom, cheek pressed to the carpet. Outside, the sky is just starting to lighten with the purple-gray beginnings of morning. I realize that I was dreaming. Or whatever it’s called.

  A swamp. Swishing water.

  I roll on my side, get my bearings. There was a boy in my dream, although not my son. A boy in a boat.

  Somewhere outside a mourning dove coos, soft and plaintive. I pick myself up, roll my neck a few times to ease out a crick. I’m not scared this time, the way I was with Hannah, just focused. He was speaking to me, this boy. He told me things. I shouldn’t forget them.

  Downstairs, I find a notebook and pen on the kitchen counter. I jot down a few notes, barely able to make out my own handwriting in the dark.

  Place: Boat in swamp. Trees, brush, alligator.

  Boy: 3ish. “Jo-Jo.” Dark eyes, longish hair, chipped tooth. Dead?

  Told me: Lived in big white house. Had doggie. Hurt (killed?) by male. Afraid to tell mother.

  Guesses: Abuse. Physical? Sexual? Possible family member?

  I’m about to close the notebook when I think of one more thing. Asked me to help, I scribble, and the words send little chills down my spine. What happened to this child? What could I possibly do for him?

  I settle in for a breakfast of lumpy instant oatmeal and work through the picture. Was he a local kid, like Hannah? I try to recall any nearby swampland but draw a blank. And alligators don’t inhabit the Northeast. I do a quick search on my phone for “alligator habitat.” The closest alligators, it would appear, are in North Carolina, but most alligators within the United States live in Florida and Louisiana.

  The connection lodges itself in my stomach, sharp and heavy. Louisiana.

  In my office, I dig out the info packet Isaac gave me yesterday. I flip through the pages, searching for a picture of the missing Deveau boy. The only one I find is too small and fuzzy to be sure. He has dark hair, that much is accurate. Not quite as long as the boy’s hair in my dream, but who knows when this photograph of the kid was taken. I also discover a picture of Evangeline, the Deveaus’ beautiful antebellum mansion. The photo isn’t in color, but the giant, pillared home looks white.

  I lived at the big white house.

  It makes sense. Louisiana is filled with swamps. But I need more. Something concrete. I skim through the packet, trying to confirm my hunch.

  Gabriel was last seen on the fourteenth of August, the night of Sydney and Brigitte’s sweet sixteen party in New Orleans. His parents, Hettie and Neville, left him at Evangeline in the care of his nanny while they attended the ball. I read further and find mention of their brother Andre. At the time of the kidnapping, Andre was eighteen, even older than the twins. According to the packet, Gabriel was a month shy of three when he went missing. But why such an age gap between children? Maybe Gabriel was an “oops” baby.

  I sink into my office chair, drawn in despite myself, and breeze through a summary of the investigation. Gabriel’s nanny, Madeleine Lauchlin, said she’d put him to bed at eight o’clock the night of August 14. As was her custom, she locked his door from the outside to prevent him from leaving his room in the night. When she went to wake him the following morning at seven, the door was still locked. Lauchlin realized she didn’t have her key with her and asked Danelle Martin, the cook, to unlock the door with her spare. The two women entered the room together and found Gabriel missing from his bed. The room had only one other entrance, through Hettie and Neville’s adjoining bedroom, but that door was latched on both sides. The windows, too, were locked. Gabriel could not have left the room unassisted.

  By the time authorities arrived, frantic staff members had thoroughly contaminated the crime scene. Several sets of fingerprints were lifted, but all were consistent with people known to have entered the room. Police had no leads or promising suspects, until Hettie Deveau found a ransom note tucked under the pillow of her bed. Written in ballpoint pen, the note demanded

  ONE MILLION DOLLARS FOR YOUR BOY

  in capital letters. The handwriting was extremely sloppy. Analysts believe the author of the note was writing left-handed to disguise his or her handwriting. The note didn’t contain details about delivery of the money, and no additional notes followed. No one has ever conclusively determined whether the note was from Gabriel’s abductor or just a hoax.

  The FBI, working with local and state police, quickly focused on Roi Duchesne, a groundskeeper whom Neville Deveau had recently fired. Duchesne later proved to have an ironclad alibi for the night of Gabriel’s disappearance and could not be linked to the crime. Hettie and Neville Deveau, seen at three a.m. in their New Orleans hotel after the birthday party, were ultimately dismissed as viable suspects, as was Andre, who had spent the night in the city with a friend. Twin sisters Sydney and Brigitte received little scrutiny, as they’d both passed out drunk in their hotel room following a lively after-party—a fact that Neville later raged at the media for reporting.

  The last page in the packet outlines some of the major theories people have about the kidnapping.

  One part jumps out at me:

  Investigators noted that the family dog, who usually slept in Gabriel’s room, did not alert staff to any intruders and was found wandering the grounds later that morning. This supported the widespread belief that a staff member, or even a member of the family itself, was responsible for Gabriel’s disappearance.

  It’s him. Has to be. The boy in the boat.

  I had a doggie.

  There’s just one piece bothering me. The name. Why would a child named Gabriel call himself Jo-Jo? Nothing Isaac has given me explains that.

  I switch on my computer and search “Gabriel Deveau” and “Jo-Jo.” No results. A search for “Gabriel Deveau,” on the other hand, turns up about six hundred thousand results. I wade through some of the mess. Mostly sites about the kidnapping and images no more helpful than the picture I got from Isaac. I think the boy I saw is Gabriel, but plenty of little boys have dark hair, dark eyes, and a nondescript nose. Gabriel never appears smiling in the photos, so I can’t see if his tooth is chipped. And maybe his tooth was chipped during the abduction.

  I lean back in my chair, now wrestling with doubt. I’ve heard various things about the Deveau kidnapping over the years, and just because I don’t consciously remember them doesn’t mean they weren’t floating around my subconscious, turning up in my dream. It’s possible my brain just strung together details I picked up somewhere. The house, the dog, Gabriel’s age and appearance—all of that is widely known.

  The name “Jo-Jo” is different. It’s personal. If I can confirm the nickname, then I’ll know, really know.

  I scroll through a couple of pages of search results, clicking on several sites, but there’s no mention of a Jo-Jo. Finally, with a certain amount of self-disgust, I open the Wikipedia entry on Gabriel. With its questionable crowd-sourcing, I consider Wikipedia only one step up from the National Enquirer. All my notions of journalistic integrity vanish, however, when I read the first line:

  Gabriel Joseph Deveau (born September 22, 1979, missing since August 15, 1982) was the youngest son of Neville and Henriette Lessard Deveau.

  It’s that easy. “Joseph.” A middle name that no other site bothered to include.

  I wander around my house. Chew a fingernail. Sort my thoughts. Obsessively plan. It’s a little past seven; I’ll call Isaac in a couple of hours. In the meantime, I can work on my resignation letter. That will feel good.

  Of course I’ll have to rent out the house. With renters, I should get by financially, at least for a little while. Rae will help me with the property. She’ll want me to get away, think that it’s healthy. And Grandma will understand, although I’m not sure I understand it myself.

  Will you help me? the boy
asked, and truthfully, I’m not sure. Can I help a boy who has been dead for nearly thirty years? But there is nothing else for me. So why not try?

  I stand by the kitchen window, watch the sun claim the sky. Misguided though it may be, I have a purpose now.

  I’m going to Louisiana.

  6.

  On the third day of the new year, I arrive in Chicory, Louisiana. The WELCOME TO CHICORY sign puts the population at 24,032. Not exactly a booming metropolis, but hardly the boonies. I pass a wrecking lot, a Dollar Store, Popeyes, a few gas stations, and a sketchy-looking establishment called Cajun Canteen. On Main Street, I discover rows of brick storefronts, many empty. Tangles of Christmas lights still dangle from the streetlights, and a large plastic Santa Claus grins in the window of a shoe store. Behind all the buildings, I see the bayou. Once the lifeline to this town, the river now appears brown and unspectacular.

  I’ve been driving for three days, pausing only for food, gas, and a few hours of sleep at a pair of no-name motels. I’ve liked reading maps, selecting odd detours. I’ve liked the feeling of a dark road, seeing only as far as my headlights allow. When day broke this morning, I was in Mississippi, meandering along a country road my GPS would never have chosen. Against the peach-dusted sky, I saw the silhouettes of trees, cows, and a little farmhouse in a paint-by-numbers landscape made real. Traveling has agreed with me, but now I’m here and the real work begins.

  It’s a sunny fifty-four degrees out, and not even noon yet—hardly the kind of January I’m accustomed to. I park in a municipal lot and think about how to kill an hour. Jules Sicard, the estate manager at Evangeline, isn’t expecting me until the afternoon. Neither Sydney nor Brigitte will be at the home, but their mother, Hettie Deveau, has been living there year-round since her cancer diagnosis. Of all the players in this drama, she’s the one I’m most curious to meet. Her husband, Neville, was always terribly combative with news media, threatening several lawsuits over the years, and even winning one against a tabloid. Now that he’s dead, Hettie may be ready to speak more candidly.

  I step out of my car and stretch my legs, fielding curious glances when passersby notice my Connecticut plates. Across the street, there’s a sign for the Chicory Public Library. You can tell a lot about an area from its library, and I’d never discount the usefulness of town archives. They’re a good way to kill an hour.

  Inside, I find hideous orange carpeting, cheap furniture, and pretty decent stacks. I make my way over to the reference desk, where a gray-haired woman of about sixty watches a maintenance worker patch a wet and rotted section of ceiling.

  It takes her a moment to notice me. “I’m sorry, can I help you with something?”

  “I’m looking for information about Neville and Henriette Deveau.” I don’t mention the kidnapping. I don’t want to look like some crude Northerner drawn by celebrity and an unsolved crime, even if I am.

  “The Deveau family, hmm?” The librarian points to a shelf a few aisles down. “I’d start with the Local History section right over yonder. Periodicals’ll have plenty for you, too. And you might try the Abe and Thomas Brennan Photo Collection.”

  I inquire about the collection, and she explains that a local photographer for the newspaper donated fourteen thousand photographs he and his father took of the town, its events and people. “The pictures capture Chicory from 1922 to 1991,” she says, her gaze drifting back up to the maintenance man’s work on the ceiling.

  Sifting through a photo collection is a bigger research project than I can tackle in an hour, but another day, maybe. “So, how did the town get its name?” I ask. “Chicory’s a plant, right?”

  The librarian nods. “Part of our French heritage. Some of the finest restaurants in New Orleans add a little chicory to the coffee.”

  “You grind up the roots, bake ’em, and they’ve got a real nice flavor,” the maintenance man calls from his ladder as he removes a stained plaster tile.

  “I’ll have to try that.”

  “Poor folk sometimes used chicory in the place a coffee,” the maintenance man adds, his gloved hand full of chunks of crumbling ceiling. “When times were tough, like durin’ the Depression or the War a Northern Aggression.”

  I blink, trying not to convey my horror. War of Northern Aggression? Is that what they call the Civil War down here?

  The librarian sees my consternation and purses her lips, embarrassed. “The War Between the States, he means.”

  She smiles apologetically, and I have the sudden sneaking suspicion that, despite my travels to London, Paris, Hawaii, and even Hong Kong, I am now farther from home than I have ever been.

  • • •

  AS I TURN DOWN THE ROAD to the Deveau estate, I wait for Evangeline to appear dramatically on the horizon. I’m expecting to be dazzled, maybe even a little appalled. Trees on either side of the winding road bend inward, scattering the sun amongst the leaves and branches in tiny diamonds of light. When I come to one sharp turn, I think I must be close. Instead, I find a fork in the road and no signs. Jules Sicard did not mention this in his directions.

  I opt for left, and at first, it’s promising. The trees thicken, forming a dense canopy. Spanish moss drapes down, gloomy and majestic. As the pavement narrows and becomes gravel, I begin to have doubts. I catch glimpses of water off to my left, bayou or some swampy offshoot. I can only imagine what a few days’ rain would do to this road. Why would anyone build a home out here?

  The swamp creeps closer and closer as I ease my Prius down the path. I know that I’ve chosen the wrong way, but I want to see where this takes me. Eventually the road opens into a large circular parking area. To the left, I can make out a boat ramp and dock. Beyond it, swamp. That’s when everything begins to shake.

  It isn’t coming from the ground, or the sky, or the car, I realize. It’s me. I’m quaking.

  I hit the brake and take a few short, panicked breaths before the tremor passes. This place scares me in a way I can’t explain. Is this it? The swamp where I saw the boy in the boat? I step gingerly from my vehicle. No sign of any human but myself: no tire tracks or cigarette butts or soda cans. No voices. Quiet, except for the crunch of gravel beneath my feet.

  The silence is, to a city dweller, unearthly. No birds, no rushing water. Only stillness. I walk out onto the dock and gaze at the green-brown water. There’s a smell I don’t like, a dank and almost moldy odor, like someone’s leaky basement. The decaying leaves remind me of Hannah Ramirez and that dirty old pool.

  Are you there, Gabriel?

  I haven’t seen him, or been spooked by any children, since I decided to do the book. The more time has passed, the more impossible it seems. How can I believe so absolutely in one vision? How can I give up my career for some half-baked project? But as I stand at the edge of the swamp now, my skin prickles with recognition. The boy feels close. He was here once. We’re separated only by time.

  They dragged the swamp, of course, after Gabriel went missing, but even I can see the margin for error in that. Too big. All that muck. Alligators. Such a little boy. And now I admit it to myself: I think he’s out there, hidden within these murky waters. Why else would I have seen him in a boat, drifting through the swamp? Why else would this place affect me so immediately and so viscerally? This must be where he died—or at least where he ended up. A dump site.

  The thought turns my stomach.

  My gut hypothesis following my dream was that a male family member, probably his father, had somehow been involved. But Neville Deveau had an alibi. And he’s dead. Gabriel’s older brother, Andre, was also cleared by police. Is it possible that authorities missed something? I try to picture the boy I saw, but more than two months have passed. He’s a vague memory now, dark hair and a chipped tooth.

  Talk to me, I think. You want my help, so talk to me.

  As if in reply, I feel a crack to the back of my head. I whirl around, dizzy. There’s not
hing there, but I have a splitting headache. I close my eyes, holding my head. A wave of nausea hits. It’s like the dock is moving, drifting through the water, and my stomach is bobbing up and down. I feel seasick. My eyes flicker open and a coldness creeps up my spine. These sensations may not be my own.

  Gabriel? Is that you?

  Suddenly I can’t breathe. Panic. I’m inhaling air, but I can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t—

  “Stop.”

  The sound of my own voice snaps me back into myself. I dig my fingers into my palms to make sure I’m in control of my body. The pain in my head is gone, but that warm, wet swamp smell has become overpowering. I step away from the dock and do a quick sanity check. I feel normal. But what was that? Some sleep-deprived hallucination, or a message?

  He hit you in the head.

  He put you in a boat.

  You couldn’t breathe. Did you drown?

  From somewhere in the swamp, a motorboat tries to start. The engine growls a few times before settling into a low, steady purr. The sound jars me into action. I glance at my watch and hurry back to my car, already late for my first meeting at the Deveau home.

  • • •

  I SPOT THE FENCE FIRST, its black metal pickets flashing through the trees. The winding road suddenly straightens, and there before me, between two massive stone pillars, are the gates of Evangeline.

  Standing at least twelve feet tall, the gates are both beautiful and foreboding, with wrought iron that rises in a flourish of curlicues and then dives into sharp latticework. A relatively recent addition to the property, the fencing was erected in the aftermath of Gabriel’s disappearance—one of many measures, I’ve heard, that Neville Deveau took to ensure the subsequent safety of his family. Through the thin bars, I can see the house waiting at the end of the drive, lovely and white, half shielded by trees. An elegant, expectant ghost of a home.