Lucky Thirteen (The Raiford Chronicles Book 1)

by Janet Taylor-Perry

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the nurse replied calmly. “Come back tomorrow.”

  The man covered his ears and looked around furtively before he shouted, “Shut up!”

  The nurse jumped at the outburst. Blue eyes pleaded at the woman again and he whispered, “Please? Larkin. Larkin said you would help. Larkin sent me.”

  The nurse asked quickly, “When did you see Larkin?”

  The man shook his head. “Recently. Please, make the voices stop. Larkin said to tell you she sent me. Her voice is very soothing. I don’t want it to stop—just the others.” The man fumbled in his jacket pocket and handed the nurse two prescription bottles. “I need these. Please, help me.”

  The nurse took the bottles and read the labels. “Haldol and Abilify?” she questioned.

  The man nodded. The caregiver looked concerned. “These are very strong meds. I’m not sure we have samples here. I’ll see if Dr. Lucas will write you a prescription. I’ll do it only because Larkin sent you.”

  The man nodded again and plunged his hands into the pockets of the sweatshirt, his shoulders hunched. The nurse went into the back of the clinic and spoke with Dr. Lucas, a member of Charity Chapel who dedicated one day a week to the free clinic, as did two other doctors and three nurses from the church. The clinic was only open three days a week. Those who could pay a nominal fee did, but medical care was available to all.

  Dr. Lucas wrote down the name, address, and phone number on the bottles. He asked, “Does he appear to need these, Sybil?”

  “Oh, yeah. He was telling voices to shut up, but he seems to be seeking help—And Larkin sent him.”

  “Yeah, but when?” Dr. Lucas unlocked the pharmaceutical cabinet. He put three of each pill into its bottle and wrote the prescriptions. “Give him these, but ask him to come back on my day next week. Make sure you get his name to see if it’s the same as on the bottles, and I’m calling the police. He might know where Larkin is. Try to keep him talking until the police get here.”

  Sybil came back into the now empty waiting room except for the figure who sat holding his head. She gently touched the man’s shoulder. When he raised deep-set, hollow, bloodshot blue eyes to the nurse, her heart went out to him. The caregiver went to the water cooler and filled a paper cup. Then she handed the man one of each pill and the water. “Take ’em,” the nurse’s gentle voice encouraged.

  He shakily took the two pills and swallowed them. Sybil asked, “How long have you been off?”

  “A few weeks. Thank you.” The patient looked around and scowled at the government-issue green paint and cheap aluminum chairs. “I could make this place look more inviting.”

  She took the cup from his hand. “Is this really your name?”

  He nodded. “Yes. I have to go. I have to take care of her. She’ll be hungry, and she wants a bath.”

  “Who? Larkin?”

  The man looked around, agitated. “I have to go. She’s going to be so mad if she finds out. Thank you.” The man snatched the bottles and the prescriptions from Sybil’s hand and flew out the door.

  ♣♣♣

  Ten minutes later, Raiford Reynolds and Christine Milovich walked through the door. Dr. Lucas and Sybil met them, and Sybil pointed at Ray. “Good, Lord! You just grabbed prescriptions for Haldol and Abilify from me and ran out the door.”

  “What?” Ray asked in confusion.

  Sybil repeated, “You could be the guy who was just in here except he needs to shave badly.”

  “Tell us everything,” the police detective demanded.

  A short time later in the car, Ray said to Chris, “Three people would identify me in a line up. This is crazy!” He handed the name and information to Chris. “And that is crazier.”

  ♣♣♣

  The hooded vagabond handed the prescriptions to the pharmacist who looked at the customer in disgust. She asked, “These are pretty expensive. Do you have the money for them or insurance, by chance?”

  The man reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a roll of money. “Yeah, I can pay you. Haven’t you ever heard the adage, ‘Don’t judge a book by its cover’?”

  The woman frowned, but filled the prescriptions and took his money. He walked to the door, followed by the pharmacist. Immediately as he stepped out, the woman locked the door, flipped over the closed sign, and lowered the blinds. The sign on the door read, “Hours: 9:00 A.M. to 6:00 P.M., Monday – Saturday. Closed Sunday.”

  The man muttered to himself, “Must be closing time.” It was almost dark as he darted away like a long-distance track runner. After nearly forty-five minutes of hard running, he stopped and leaned on a park bench, winded. In the darkness only a handful of people jogged or walked their dogs in the park. He collapsed onto the bench and breathed deep gulps of air. Seemingly unable to help himself, he fell asleep.

  ♣♣♣

  Larkin was so hungry she felt sick. All she had ingested for two days was water from the tap in the lavatory. Have I scared the poor man completely away and doomed myself to die of starvation? Lying on the bed, she bolted upright when the door flung open and her breathless captor came in. He sank to the floor right beside the bed.

  “What happened? Where have you been?” Larkin asked frantically.

  In answer, the man held up two full bottles of pills. Through gulps of air, he said triumphantly, “I got my meds, and ran all the way back. I only stopped a minute.”

  Larkin sank back on the bed. It dawned on her that this man had no concept of time. She asked gently, “Do you know how long you’ve been gone?”

  Blue eyes looked at her, questioning and confused. “A couple of hours.”

  Larkin shook her head.

  “How long?” he asked.

  “Two days,” she answered matter-of-factly.

  “I left you alone for two days? Mo chagren; I’m sorry.” The man began to pace. “Oh, you must be starving.” Wringing his hands he added, “Latrice gave me money to take care of you. I used some of it for the meds. Was that wrong? Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” He gestured for Larkin to wait. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Larkin was beside herself. She tried fruitlessly to force her hand through the cuff. If he’s gone a few more days, I’ll be skin and bone, and my hand will slip right through.

  She didn’t have to wait long. Her captor returned within an hour. “Latrice told me you like Mexican.” He sounded almost happy. “I didn’t know exactly what, so I got a lot of different things.” He set two bags from Taco Bell on the bed. He lit several candles and illuminated the room, barren except for the bed and two rotting wine casks, on which the man set the candles. Larkin watched in dismay.

  Her captor slid the hood from his head and sat at the foot of the bed. He was no longer trying to hide from her. She didn’t know whether that was good or bad, but she couldn’t help but notice the man was very good looking in spite of the fact that he needed to shave. His short raven-black hair had a few flecks of gray at the temples. He looked at Larkin; cheeks dimpled slightly, deeper on the right side than the left; and shrugged. “I’m sorry. I lost all track of time, but I should’ve realized how long it had been. I took the two samples of meds the nurse handed me. I ran from the clinic and straight to a pharmacy before I stopped on a park bench to rest a minute. I fell asleep. I thought it was only a little cat nap. I haven’t slept much lately. The voices were too loud. That’s where I woke up and ran back here. That was two days ago? I thought it was the same day.” He ran a smooth hand except for a callus on the middle finger near the nail through his hair and laughed a little bitterly. “It’s too weird that I slept so long in the park, and nobody noticed or cared.”

  The guy opened the two bags and began spreading out the food. He handed Larkin a large cup of Dr. Pepper and pulled out a second cup into which he plunged a straw and took a long draught to wash down two pills he had in his hand. He held up his cup at her stare. “Coke. I got something for me, too. Is that all right?”

  She nodded and
sipped her drink. At the sight of the food, she pointed, “Taco. Chalupa. Do they have sour cream? I love sour cream.”

  Prolonged exposure had dulled her senses to the putrid smell of her surroundings. Larkin bit into a crunchy taco and thought food had never tasted so good. She had devoured two crunchy tacos and a chalupa before she realized her captor was laughing at her.

  “What’s so funny?” she asked. “I was starving.”

  “So I see.” Larkin’s captor sobered. “I really am sorry. And I’ve been thinking. You might be right. Latrice might be the crazy one. I’m not so confused any more. You see, I’ve been on meds for a long time, since my senior year in college. My mom made sure I took them. She would call me every morning and say, ‘Ray, did you take your pills?’ She died, and I sort of forgot to take my pills every day. Then the prescription ran out. Now, I’m taking them again, and I’m hearing Mom’s voice. But that’s okay.” He held up both hands and pushed gently on the air. “She always gives me good advice. She’s telling me I shouldn’t listen to Latrice anymore.”

  “And turns into a chatterbox?” Larkin asked with a grin. “So, your name is Ray?”

  He nodded. “My name is really Raiford. My folks called me Ray for short. It’s not what I’ve always wanted to be called, but that’s okay. You may call me Ray. Will you talk to me for a while? Latrice was right about one thing. Your voice is strong.”

  Larkin argued, “Only because deep inside you wanted to hear the voice of reason. Ray, is Latrice a real person?”

  Ray nodded again. “Yes. I told you she wasn’t a voice. The voices have never made any sense. They were just intangible voices, like I could hear other people’s thoughts—the more people, the more voices. Yeah, Latrice is real, very real. I went to the health department to get my meds. It’s easier to go there than to drive into New Orleans where my shrink is. She was new. I thought she actually liked me—me a whacko who hears voices. Yeah, right!”

  “You’re not a whacko, Ray. You have an illness, and you need your medicine. Ray, don’t leave again.”

  “I have to get us something to eat.”

  “Yeah. Well, go to the store. Bring an ice chest and something we can make. We need to talk a lot.”

  “All right, but may I do it in the morning? I’m tired. Although I apparently slept for two days, I am really tired.”

  “It’s your body trying to heal itself the way God intended. All right,” she conceded, “we’ll sleep, but where will you sleep?”

  Ray shook his head. “I’m not going to hurt you, Larkin. I would never force myself on you. I’ve never been that crazy. I’ll sleep right here on the floor if you’ll share one of your blankets.”

  She handed him a blanket, and he lay on the floor by the bed and fell asleep instantly.

  8

  Determined Detective

  Ray and Chris arrived back at the police station. At his desk, Ray reached in the drawer and pulled out his Amidrine. At his partner’s frown he quipped, “I need my meds!”

  She laughed. He took a pill with a swig from the bottled water on his desk. Looking at Chris, he winked and joked, “At least, I don’t hear voices.”

  “True. But you do have another headache, huh?”

  “One’s trying to come on, but I’m determined to stop it before it starts.” He guzzled more water. “That’s beside the point. This case just gets more bizarre by the day. We really need to find this guy. Apparently, he’s some lunatic who’s heard God tell him to do it.”

  “I don’t think so,” Chris argued. “I’m not at all sure this guy has hurt anybody.” They heard footsteps. “There’s Baker with the search warrant. You gonna fall asleep on me?”

  “No way! Somebody with my face is making me look really bad. Allons.”

  Chris shook her head with a wry smile as she was beginning to pick up some of Ray’s Cajun French. He laughed lightly at her expression, his dimples showing, the right one a bit deeper than the left. “Let’s go. I wanna know what makes this guy tick.”

  ♣♣♣

  After a short drive, Ray and Chris arrived at a modest, but classy, neighborhood of relatively new townhouses. Inside the suspect’s home, it was apparent he probably had not been there in a while. They walked through just looking around at first. Molding dishes sat in the sink. Chris opened the refrigerator. “Oh!” she gasped, closing it fast. “The stench. It smells like sour milk and rotten bologna.”

  Ray sighed. “The rest of the house is spotless except for a thin layer of dust.” The living room contained a sofa, a recliner, and a fine entertainment center with tables that matched. Two barstools stood at the bar which separated the kitchen from the dining area. A glass and black wrought iron dinette set with four chairs filled the dining room. The only decorations in the house were a pen and ink drawing of a medieval castle hung over the fireplace and an oil painting of a Victorian village on the wall between the two windows in the dining room. Ray continued his observation. “Orderly. Not cramped.”

  Chris agreed with a nod. “Yes, he seems to be uncomplicated. It makes me wonder about his mindset.”

  “How?”

  “Getting his meds the way he did. He seems to be coming to his senses.”

  They walked through the rest of the house. The bed in what appeared to be the master bedroom was made. Chris opened the closet. “His clothes are hung neatly. Suits and silk ties. He’s a professional.”

  Ray opened the drawers of the dresser and chest of drawers. “These things are sorted by color. Boxer briefs, just like me.” He laughed. “There’s a drawer of socks missing a mate. I keep mine in a clothes basket.” He opened the valet on top of the dresser. “Must make real good money. Onyx and diamond cuff links and tie tack. Money clip with about fifty bucks.” He picked up a watch. “It’s a Rolex!”

  Chris agreed. “Yeah, he must make good money. Nice suits—nothing off the rack. One’s an Armani.”

  Ray whistled his appreciation. The FBI agent crossed the hall while Ray checked the bathroom. The second bedroom appeared to serve as an office and home gym. It contained a desk with state-of-the art computer equipment, a drafting table, a treadmill, and a Bowflex. Several finished and unfinished blueprints lay on the table. All were initialed “R. G.”

  The downstairs half-bath appeared never to be touched while the upstairs bathroom, which could be entered from either bedroom, had everything in compulsive order; toiletries were arranged methodically.

  “He’s been here,” Ray said.

  Chris stuck her head in the door. “How do you know?”

  The cop pointed to two small clean circles in the dusty countertop of the upstairs bathroom. “But he didn’t stay. He came long enough to get his medication bottles. That’s where they sat. Where has he been staying?”

  “I don’t know,” Chris said. “I think we need to get a description of him to all the local pharmacies.”

  “Yeah.” Ray nodded. “I can just walk in and say, ‘Hey, I look just like a mass murderer. Take my picture.’”

  Chris snickered in spite of the seriousness of the situation. “We still need to get it out there.”

  “I know.”

  “Then,” Chris continued, motioning Ray into the office/gym, “we need to go to Bertram and Associates. That’s the name on the blueprints.” She fingered one of them. “It appears our whacko is a brilliant architect. I would give my right arm to live in this house.”

  “It is nice,” agreed Ray, looking over Chris’s shoulder. Returning to the bathroom, he bagged the toiletries to obtain fingerprints and DNA and confiscated the computer from the office.

  As they left the house, the next door neighbor and her daughter arrived home. The little girl squealed in delight, “Mr. Ray!” and flung her arms around Ray’s legs. The mother seemed pleased, too, to see the man she thought was her neighbor.

  “Mr. Gautier, it’s nice to have you home again. You’ve been gone such a long time that I thought you had moved.” The woman eyed Ray’s holster and gun s
trangely.

  Ray looked at Chris and shook his head in disbelief. Juggling the computer, he reached into his pocket and took out his badge. He extended his hand and politely introduced himself. “Hello, ma’am. I’m Detective Raiford Reynolds, and this is my partner, Agent Christine Milovich. It’s come to my attention in the last few days that I resemble your neighbor.”

  “No,” the woman countered. “You look just like him. I’m Carol Johnson, and this is my daughter, Sheena.”

  Ray patted the little girl on the head. “Hi. I’m sorry I’m not your friend.” He turned back to Carol. “We are, however, looking for Mr. Gautier. What can you tell us about him?”

  “Is he in some kind of trouble?” asked Mrs. Johnson with a dubious expression.

  “We’re not sure yet. We need to talk to him though.”

  “I find it hard to believe Ray Gautier could be in any kind of trouble.” Mrs. Johnson shook her head. “He’s a very nice man. He lives alone and is very quiet.”

  Ray asked, “Are you familiar with his friends or family?”

  “Not really. I never met his family. Some Fridays he goes out, but he never has company unless a courier delivers something to his house. He’s an architect.”

  “Would you call him a loner?”

  “He’s not antisocial, just quiet. Last C-H-R-I-S-T-M-A-S he built a D-O-L-L-H-O-U-S-E for S-A-N-T-A.” She glanced down at her daughter who looked about three. “My husband’s in Iraq, and Ray has been great helping with Sheena.”

  “What about his background?” Chris asked.

  “He had a rough Christmas season himself. His mother who lived in Lake Charles died unexpectedly shortly after Christmas. He took it pretty hard.”

  “Of course,” Chris said. “How did that affect his demeanor?”

  “He acted a little strange sometimes after that, but I didn’t think much of it, considering his loss. He mentioned she was the only family he had.”