The Gates of Evangeline

by Hester Young

  Detective Minot shrugs. “Maybe Sean knew his father was molesting the kid. Sean had a big fight with his parents right before he left in June, right? Maybe he never left at all. Maybe Jack killed him to cover up what he was doing to Gabriel.”

  “That still doesn’t explain the half million in Sean’s bank account.” I’m relieved to find a flaw in his theory, something to remove Noah’s grandfather from the equation.

  “The money is a sticking point,” Detective Minot agrees.

  I concentrate on the money and start down another line of thinking. “Maybe Sean was blackmailing Neville. If Neville was abusing Gabriel, and Sean somehow found out—”

  “No,” Detective Minot interrupts. “Those payments to Sean’s account began before Gabriel was even born.”

  I revise my theory. “Sean grew up at that house. Maybe Neville molested him.” I feel a lot better pinning all this evil on a man I’ve never met, one who has no blood ties to the guy I’ve been sharing a bed with. Still, I don’t find the scenario entirely convincing. Neville displayed no special affinity for children from what I’ve heard—and would he really be cheating on Hettie with adult women if his real interest lay in young boys?

  Detective Minot shares my reservations, but for different reasons. “I could buy the blackmail angle, that Neville killed Sean to shut him up. But it doesn’t explain Gabriel. Neville has an alibi for the night of the kidnapping. Which means he would’ve hired someone, and I’m telling you, investigators couldn’t find a damn thing to support that.”

  I kick at some dead leaves. “Maybe . . . they overlooked something. Someone local Neville might’ve used for the job.”

  Detective Minot sinks onto a lopsided picnic table, and I can tell he’s close to giving up for the night. “I can see why they focused on Roi Duchesne,” he says ruefully. “He sure fit the bill.”

  “There’s no wiggle room in Duchesne’s alibi?”

  “Nope. At least a dozen people saw him that night at a casino in Alabama.”

  “If Duchesne did jail time, he might’ve known the right people,” I suggest. “Maybe he was just a middleman. We should talk to him.” Detective Minot makes some kind of grunt that I take to be agreement. Finally, I gather the courage to ask the question that’s been plaguing me throughout this whole discussion. “Do you know if they’ve notified Sean Lauchlin’s family?”

  He shakes his head. “None of what I told you has been released to the public yet. Your lips are sealed, you understand?” He eyes me, sensing there’s a reason I’m asking. “I don’t think the Lauchlins have any family living. Maddie had a sister in Texas, but I’m pretty sure she’s dead.”

  I can’t pretend Noah doesn’t exist any longer, can’t neatly separate my work from my romantic life. Noah has far more of a right to know about his dad than I do.

  “Sean had a son,” I say softly. “I know him. We’re . . . kind of close.”

  “A son? You’re kidding me.” Detective Minot blinks a few times as if trying to orient himself. “How old? And who’s the mother? You realize this could have major implications in the investigation.”

  I cover my face. The last thing I wanted to do was drag Noah into this. His father’s murder will be hard enough to process without getting grilled on every little thing Jack and Maddie ever mentioned about his parents. And what if his cherished Nanny and Daddy Jack are involved?

  Detective Minot, meanwhile, has his own betrayal to sort through. “Why didn’t you tell me about this guy before?” he demands. “I mean, hell, you have a personal connection to the Lauchlins? I would never have shared—”

  “Exactly why I didn’t tell you.”

  “Charlotte.” His nostrils flare. “I don’t care how much this guy means to you. You wait for forensics to make a positive ID. If that information is leaked prematurely, it could compromise the investigation. And I’d lose my job.”

  I don’t want to screw things up for him, and really, silence is the easier course of action here. I can’t predict Noah’s response. For all I know, he’ll show up at the sheriff’s department wanting answers and it would be Detective Minot’s ass. Carrying around this secret indefinitely, though, makes me sick to my stomach. Sean is his father. All these years Noah thought his dad didn’t care . . . but maybe Sean did care.

  “Promise me you won’t blow this.” In the deepening twilight, Detective Minot’s watching me closely, searching for signs of resistance. “Give me your word.”

  “I promise.” But I want to cry. Noah trusts me.

  “What’s the son’s name?”

  “Noah Lauchlin.” I dispense his vital stats dutifully; the sheriff’s office will need to notify him once Sean’s identification is official. “He was born March 19, 1979. He lives in Sidalie, Texas. Maddie and Jack raised him after his mom died. Her name was Violet Johnson.”

  “Violet.” He searches his memory. “You asked about her the other day.”

  “She used to work at Evangeline.”

  “Right. Housekeeper. She only lasted a few months. Didn’t part on very good terms.”

  I try to swallow back the sour taste in my mouth. “Look, I know you’ll need to ask Noah questions about his family, but . . . give him time to process the news about his dad, okay?”

  “Fine.”

  We trudge quietly back to the parking lot. In the yellowy light of a streetlamp, Detective Minot watches me step into my car, his face hard even as he ensures my safety. He’s angry at me, understandably, and angry at himself for confiding in me. I’m angry with me, too. I’m surrounded by good people who believe in me, and I’m letting them all down.

  • • •

  THE NEXT FEW DAYS pass in a slow, excruciating haze. Over the weekend, several local news outlets cover the discovery of human remains at the old sugar mill. The stories contain nothing about the shoe or the military ID tags found, but all play up the fact that the land is Deveau owned. This is not the first time the family has been connected to a major criminal investigation, a reporter reminds viewers. Nearly thirty years ago, two-year-old Gabriel Deveau was abducted from the family’s Chicory home. Despite a highly publicized national search, the kidnapping remains unsolved. No word from authorities on whether the newly discovered remains have any connection to the 1982 case, but Bonnefoi Parish sheriff Jim Pardy says the bones recovered so far appear to belong to an adult.

  The program cuts to a press conference with Sheriff Pardy, a half-bald man who fields the questions of aggressive reporters. He confirms rumors of FBI involvement, explaining that they’ve been called upon for their superior resources and expertise. Asked about the identity of the victim, Sheriff Pardy declines to comment pending the official reports of forensic experts. He stresses that although the bones were on Deveau land, the family has not been charged with any wrongdoing.

  I turn off the TV, head aching, but there’s no way to escape an event this big in Chicory. By Monday, Evangeline’s staff are all abuzz with the news. At dinner, Leeann talks about nothing else. She and her boyfriend have a bet going. She thinks the murder points to the presence of organized crime in Chicory and gleefully tosses around words like “hit” and “enforcer.” Mike thinks it’s a sex crime, a rape and murder. The bet strikes me as surprisingly ghoulish.

  “What do you win if you’re right?” I ask, but she only shrugs.

  Even Jules, who stops in to discuss tomorrow’s menu with her, can’t resist participating in the gossip. “It’s probably someone who crossed Neville,” he tells us. “He was not a man to mess with.”

  “Oh no,” Leeann protests, “Mr. D. wasn’t like that . . . wouldn’ kill no one.”

  “Not in his final years, maybe,” Jules says with condescension. “When he was younger, though, he had quite the temper. His own family feared him. And he was a ruthless businessman.”

  I can guess where Jules is getting all of his information. Do
es that mean Andre thinks Neville is responsible for the body at the sugar mill, or is that Jules’s own conclusion? And does Andre suspect it’s Sean Lauchlin they’ve found? He was certainly guarded when he spoke about Sean with me in the boat.

  “Neville’s not the only ruthless businessman around,” I say, just to see how Jules will react. “You know what they say. Like father, like son.”

  Jules snorts. “Trust me when I say all of Neville’s killer instincts went to his daughters.”

  For the hundredth time, I wonder about Jules and Andre’s relationship. I believed Andre when he said that Jules was more than just his boy toy, and I remember the phone call I overheard in the garden—Jules upset about hiding their relationship. Though I’m sure they have their own brand of intimacy, I also have the distinct impression that Andre knows things, dark and burdensome things he hasn’t shared with Jules. But, as I think of Noah and all I haven’t told him, I know that doesn’t negate Andre’s feelings for Jules. It just complicates them.

  I don’t know about Andre Deveau, but I’m tired of complication, tired of omissions. If I can’t tell Noah the truth about his father, I can at least tell him the truth about myself.

  On Tuesday morning, Noah calls to say he’s en route to Evangeline. I walk around the grounds, brooding, and see Hettie outside in her wheelchair with all three children and a watchful nurse. The twins are engaged in their own conversation while Andre stares into space and Hettie dozes. Do her kids intend to stick around until she dies? Is she that close to the end? Maybe it’s time to extricate myself from Evangeline before the family is consumed by her loss. I have enough to pull off the book that Isaac wants, and I don’t know how to help Gabriel any further. Do I just . . . go home?

  It all depends on Noah, and that scares me.

  Hours later, Noah’s truck pulls down the drive. He’s earlier than expected—he must have driven like a demon to get here.

  Don’t look too eager.

  But he looks excited enough for both of us. “Well, lookit here.” He lifts me off my feet in a bear hug. “Got my very own welcomin’ committee.”

  We walk back to his cottage hand in hand. I can’t get over how happy he looks.

  Do I really make someone this happy? How long can that last?

  “How you been?” he asks. “You and Rae have a good time in the city?”

  New Orleans feels so long ago.

  “Yeah, we had fun.”

  He punches in the key code to his door and motions for me to go inside. “You okay? You seem like you got somethin’ on your mind.” I wince as he lifts his shirt and removes the gun and holster from his side. I didn’t even realize he was wearing it.

  “A lot’s been going on here,” I tell him. “A body turned up.”

  “A body?”

  “Well. The bones.”

  “Here?” The lightness in his mood evaporates. “Don’t tell me they found Gabriel.”

  “Not at Evangeline. A few miles away on some land that Hettie owns. And it’s not Gabriel.”

  “Do they know who?” He hesitates before placing his gun in his sock drawer, as if it might not be safe to part with just yet.

  I swallow. I omit. I hate myself for it. “The police haven’t released that information yet.” It’s the only true thing I can think of that doesn’t break my promise to Detective Minot.

  “You look real upset about this, darlin’. Is there somethin’—”

  Before I even know what I’m doing, I blurt out another truth. “I dreamed it.” This isn’t where I meant for this conversation to go, but maybe it’s for the best. “I dreamed about the bones, Noah . . . exactly where they were. And then they were really there. It’s not the first time, either.”

  “Wait a minute.” He leans back against the counter, and I realize with a sinking feeling that my confession made sense to only one of us. “Was there a body, or did you have a bad dream?”

  “There was a body. There were bones. It’s all over the news, haven’t you seen?” I don’t have time to clarify, however. Someone is knocking urgently on Noah’s door.

  I find Benny on the front step, out of breath and all in a panic.

  “Benny? What’s wrong?” But I already know, can read it on his face. Something more powerful, more important than my dreams of death.

  “Baby’s comin’,” Benny gasps. “You phone workin’? We gotta call an ambulance.”

  I reach for my keys. Noah and I can talk about bones and premonitions later. “I’ll get you guys to the hospital.”

  “Leeann said we can’t move ’er,” Benny says in a rush. “The head’s comin’ out.”

  I freeze. “Oh my God. Noah!”

  He’s already sprinting back toward the driveway with his phone. “I’ll call an ambulance and wait by security.”

  Benny and I race back to his cottage, where he leads me past mounds of Bailey’s toys and piles of dirty clothes, then over to the bed. Paulette lies back, bare from the waist down. Panting. Legs spread. Sure enough, a strip of baby head is visible between her legs.

  My heart lurches.

  Leeann stands at the foot of the bed looking surprisingly composed. “Don’t you worry, Paulie,” she croons. “We gonna help this li’l boy get born. You almost there. Next contraction, you give it all you got.”

  Paulette acknowledges her with a moan.

  EMS will never make it in time. I check my phone for a signal, hoping to search “emergency birth,” but no luck. I rack my brain for everything I know about childbirth, but it’s not much. I was in a hospital when I had Keegan, under anesthesia, surrounded by trained professionals who could respond to any emergency. What do I know about delivering babies?

  Leeann, meanwhile, doles out instructions, the growing thickness of her Cajun accent the only sign of her anxiety. “Benny, you help ’er sit up,” she says. “Baby’ll come out easier if she not flat on ’er back. Get right behind ’er.”

  Benny hops obediently onto the bed and eases Paulette into an upright position.

  “Now hold ’is hand, honey,” Leeann tells her. “And when it’s time to push, you squeeze dat hand like you mean to break it.”

  “Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” I hiss.

  “I’m the oldest of six,” she says. “My mama had fast labors. Won’t be the first baby I seen born in a bed.”

  “What if something goes wrong?” Paulette could start hemorrhaging. The cord could get wrapped around her son’s neck. And what if he’s not breathing? I can more or less remember how to do CPR on adults and children, but the rules are different for infants.

  “It’s gone be fine,” Leeann says resolutely. “A body knows what to do.”

  Paulette lets out a long, guttural roar. A contraction. She squeezes Benny’s hand and bears down with all the force she can muster. Her face is damp and contorted, her eyes in another world.

  I try not to look at the blood.

  “You doin’ fine, Paulette,” Leeann says. “This is it, yeah. Time for you baby join da world.”

  When Paulette closes her eyes, I can feel her resolve, her need to eliminate all stimuli except the sensation of this baby. I grab a clean towel, getting ready.

  “I see ’im!” Benny breathes. “He comin’!”

  I see him coming, too.

  Leeann reaches for the slick, hairy head straining to get out. The baby is close. So close. Leeann is there, fingers on his gooey head, trying to ease him out without tearing his mother. There’s a brief rest period, then another round of contractions. Can this baby fit? It seems impossible. He’s big. Too big. Except he’s moving, descending, millimeter by millimeter, brought forth by his mother’s sheer strength of will.

  Paulette bellows, and then Leeann finds herself with a full head in her cupped hands. There’s blood and mess everywhere as she slides this brand-new creature out and wraps h
im in the towel I provide. The umbilical cord is gray and gelatinous, but Leeann tells me not to cut it yet.

  “He look all right?” Benny calls from the bed.

  I study the baby. He has that sort of swollen, waterlogged look that newborns get, but I’m pretty sure that’s normal. Leeann uses the towel to remove any lingering muck from his nose and mouth. He offers a long, high-pitched cry in response. Definitely breathing.

  “He’s perfect,” I tell Benny, my eyes welling up. “Congratulations.”

  Paulette’s slumped back in bed like the victim of a violent crime, but she perks up somewhat when her husband lays her teeny son against her chest. She lifts up her shirt to nurse him, while Leeann covers the stained bedsheets with fresh towels.

  “You still got the aftabirth,” she reminds Paulette. “You get that pushin’ feelin’, you just let it out nice ’n’ easy.”

  She’s on top of things, Leeann. Twenty-three years old, but so together, so unafraid.

  I move slowly away from the bed, dizzy.

  Within minutes, emergency responders descend upon the scene. As Leeann gives them a breathless account of the birth, I drift away, no longer sure I’m inhabiting my own body. There’s something about Paulette, how fully she experienced every excruciating moment, how present she was in her body, that makes me doubt my own physical existence. How could anyone ever think life would be easy when it comes so hard?

  Outside, it hits me. The miracle of this beautiful baby. The permanence of my own loss. I crouch down by an oak tree and vomit. Even when there’s nothing left, I keep retching.

  Then there’s a hand on my shoulder, Noah brushing the hair out of my face. I realize that I’m crying, noisy choking sobs I can’t stop. He tries to rub my back, but I shrug him off.

  “It’s okay,” he tells me. “Darlin’, it’s okay.”

  But it’s not. My baby is dead, and that will never be okay. I spit on the ground one last time and rise to my feet. “You don’t understand.”