Lucky Thirteen (The Raiford Chronicles Book 1)

by Janet Taylor-Perry

  The woman hit a few keys on her computer and grinned crookedly as if she had won a battle. She informed the two waiting law enforcement officers, “The records are too old to be on a disc or microfiche, but you’re welcome to search the paper records in the warehouse. They are located in Building M, row thirteen.” She rifled through a drawer and handed them a key.

  Chris snatched the key and glowered at the clerk. She leaned across the counter and whispered, “We have twelve dead women, and you want to be a bitch about some records? Vital info—info, honey—that a decent person would be going through every scrap of paper with us to find if she thought it might help catch a killer. Guess you’re not decent people. So you’ll know, impeding a federal investigation is a felony. How would you like to be locked up in the cell next to this whacko?” She straightened up and smoothed her slacks. “I guess you wouldn’t be in any danger though. All the dead women seem to have been decent, unlike you.”

  The clerk stared at Chris, slack-jawed, too afraid to say a word in her own defense. When the door closed behind the law enforcement, she sank into her chair. Ray bumped shoulders with the county tax assessor as he entered and said loudly enough to carry into the hallway, “Your phone call can wait. I have a list of surveys to be pulled immediately.”

  In the car, Ray said, “I can’t believe what you just did. That’s my style, not yours.”

  “Little you know.” She leaned her head against the glass in the passenger-side door. “You said we were alike. And I didn’t like her. I don’t appreciate being talked down to. I’m probably ten times smarter than she is.”

  “Hands down,” he agreed.

  Chris lifted her head. “Ray, this is why we haven’t caught the guy. People don’t care.”

  “We care.”

  “Yeah. Before you ask, I really don’t think the other Ray is a killer, especially after our visit with Bertram.”

  “Maybe. What if he’s acting out against the girl who rejected him? Or what if he found out about our wonderful birth mother and that made him snap?”

  “Did you ever wonder if your birth mother was all bad?”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind.” She put her head back on the cool glass. “What if we find out he is your twin? How does that affect what you do?”

  “If he’s a murderer, I’ll arrest him.”

  “If you don’t, you know I will.”

  “Yeah. We make a good team. Chris, rather than my working for the feds, maybe you should stay here when all this is over.”

  “That’s a thought,” the agent said as they pulled in front of the warehouse.

  Ray sighed. “The buildings seem to have survived Katrina, but I hope the records weren’t damaged or eaten by rats.”

  They walked expectantly to the door. Chris turned the key in the lock. The door creaked on its hinges, and although the weather was cool, the warehouse was stuffy and dusty.

  “Oh, gag! The foul odor.” Chris slapped a hand over her nose.

  “The smell of mildew means paper should still be intact, at least,” Ray said, wrinkling his nose.

  Chris insisted, “Leave the door open.”

  Very little light filtered through the grimy windows. Ray fumbled with a light switch by the door. Half a dozen lights hanging from chains mounted to the beams in the ceiling cast shadows up and down the rows.

  “Lead the way,” Chris said with a look of disgust on her face. “If one silverfish crawls on me…” She shook a fist at the man beside her.

  They walked to row thirteen. “There must be a hundred boxes here,” Ray lamented.

  “Pick box thirteen,” Chris said.

  “Why?”

  “Let’s see,” she said, oozing sarcasm. “Building M, the thirteenth letter of the alphabet; row thirteen; you were born on January 13th.”

  “Friday,” interjected Ray, with a mischievous grin.

  “The thirteenth woman is missing,” Chris continued, undaunted by Ray’s smart-aleck comment. “Do we have a recurring theme here?”

  He shrugged. “It’s as good a logic as any.” Ray wiggled the box labeled M-13-13 from its place and sat down in the middle of the dirty floor.

  Her look of disgust deepening, Chris sat beside him and used the key to cut the tape. “Ugh!” she grunted. “And you can pay my dry cleaning bill.”

  He waved her comment off with a slight flick of his fingers. “Should I try the thirteenth folder?” Ray asked, a wry smirk playing around his mouth.

  “Why not?”

  He pulled the thirteenth folder out. It was labeled “Birth Records—’78.” He spread the contents on the floor.

  Halfway through the mound of papers, Chris uttered, “Jeez!”

  “What?”

  She handed Ray a certificate that read: Live birth; 13 January 1978; monozygotic twins; male; 2’8”; 13:00; 2’4”; 13:13; race—Caucasian; mother—Audrey van Zandt, age 13; father—unknown.

  “Oh, my God! Audrey.” Ray scanned the file. His hand shook as he read. “She was just a baby, and she wasn’t a whore or a drug addict. She was just a baby having a baby. The damned priest lied.” He choked out the words.

  “Yes, but even I, a Yankee, know the name from case studies.”

  “It can’t be the same Audrey van Zandt.”

  “You know damned well it is. That name is too uncommon in southeastern Louisiana, and the dates match. She has never given a reason for going into that fraternity house with her daddy’s shotgun; just, ‘They deserved it.’ Ray, I would put money on the fact that those six boys raped her. She was Catholic. She couldn’t have an abortion. Birth size indicates you were very premature, not unusual for a girl so young and twins.” Chris hesitated before she suggested, “Ray, she’s in the state penitentiary. Talk to her. Drive up tomorrow. The name of the biological father is unknown. You might be able to determine which one was your father.”

  “My father is Albert Reynolds, and my mother is Dorothy Reynolds. I love them very much.” Ray walked out the door, shoulders slouched.

  With a sigh, Chris slid the box against the others, but took the file with her. You seem to always walk away from personal issues that hurt. She called, “Ray!”

  He turned toward her, nostrils flared, eyes flashing. “Why would I want to know which one of those assholes sired me? God! If your theory’s correct, she should get a medal, not a prison cell. So what if she had time to think about it? It drove her mad. Maybe that’s why one of us is killing people and the other verges on lunacy when his head is about to burst!” he shouted.

  Chris hollered back, “Maybe that’s why you’re both good men who were raised by great parents! The girl had the guts to give you to somebody that could love you and take care of you. That takes guts! That takes more guts than you’ll ever know!” Hot tears smarted her eyes.

  Ray looked at the woman who never lost control as reality dawned on him. He asked calmly, “Was it boy or a girl? How old were you?”

  “Girl. Fourteen. Enough said. Let’s go.” She pushed the lock on the door, slammed it, and walked briskly toward the car.

  He dogged her steps. “No, it’s not,” argued Ray. “What happened, Chris? Tell me. Talk to me.”

  “Now is not the time.”

  “Yes, it is. Were you raped? Is that why you’re so angry?”

  “No.” She shook her head and stared at the ground. “Maybe if I had been my father would’ve been more understanding. No, I was just young, lonely, and careless. I had so much responsibility after my mother died. I wasn’t allowed to be a child any more. I was so lonely.”

  She poured out a story she had never talked about. “I got involved with Ted Metz. He was the same age I was. We were each other’s first. Oh, we thought we were in love.” She released a long, sad sigh. “Wow! When I got pregnant, you would’ve thought the world had ended. His parents accused me of doing it deliberately, and I was suddenly the biggest slut on Earth. They prohibited him from ever seeing me again. They were so desperate to make sure he
accepted no responsibility for his actions they sent him to military school. And they refused to have anything to do with ‘that little bastard child that most likely didn’t belong to their son anyway.’”

  She made a slight rocking motion and clutched the file she held to her chest. “My dad said he couldn’t afford another mouth to feed. And he really couldn’t. He struggled to take care of us. Single fathers don’t get help like single mothers. Dad insisted I give the baby up for adoption. He said he wanted me to have a real life and assured me someday I’d have a family with a man that really loved me.” She pressed her eyes with her thumb and middle finger, index finger resting in the center of her forehead. “It broke my heart, but I knew he was right. Well, I haven’t found that love yet, and, trust me—I’ve looked in all the wrong places. I just hope my little girl has had a good life.” She moved her hand to her cheek as she felt flushed even in the cool air. “I hope she doesn’t say things like, ‘My wonderful birth mother,’ with the disdain you do.” Her lip trembled. And I pray that my little girl doesn’t hate me.

  Ray shook his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t…”

  She waved her hand in front of her. “Now, I’ve told you my deepest, darkest secret. Searching through those records put me in a funk. However, the adoption records aren’t here. Let’s talk to the nuns. You know what happened to you. You need to know what happened to your brother.”

  “And you need to know what happened to your daughter.”

  “Now is not the time, Ray. Let’s go.” With her hand raised into the air, she tried to lighten the moment. “Allons!”

  The truth slapped Ray as he acknowledged, “My brother. My God! I have a brother.”

  ♣♣♣

  At the hospital, the investigators learned that thirty years before Catholic Charity Hospital had run an adoption service. Ray argued for over an hour before he convinced Mother Superior Mary Alex Samuels she would be helping save lives by giving him the records. She finally conceded when Chris mentioned a court order, which Ray had been hesitant to do against a church supported organization.

  While the old nun retrieved the documents, he whispered, “Separation of church and state would make that order hard to get.”

  Chris shrugged. “Not impossible, and she bought it.”

  “I think she just wants to do the right thing.”

  After the mother superior gave him the files, Ray scanned his own but saw nothing he did not already know except he was adopted second. He was the younger of the two and had been in incubation longer. The rest he already knew because the Reynolds family did not keep secrets from one another.

  He read thoroughly the other baby’s file. He had been adopted by Louis and Maria Gautier of Lake Charles. Maria was a bookkeeper, and Louis was a farmer.

  Ray asked the mother superior, “Why didn’t you keep us together?”

  “I actually argued for that, but Father Dawler overruled me and forbad me to tell either couple they were getting a twin. I know the Reynoldses would have taken both. Being a banker and a nurse, they could afford it. The Gautiers would probably have taken both, but they were less financially stable. They adopted a little girl six years later, the last adoption we did.”

  “Well, one vital piece of information is still missing. Who was our father?”

  “I don’t know, Detective. I really don’t know. Audrey left without a word within hours of your birth. She shouldn’t have been moving. She was so weak. I remember she hemorrhaged badly. She could’ve bled to death. Two days later, she killed those boys in the fraternity house.”

  Chris shared her theory with the older woman. Mother Mary Alex nodded. “It makes sense. Maybe you should talk to Audrey. Let her know she did the best thing for you.”

  “Did she?” Ray said doubtfully, but only for a split second before he hastily added, “Yes, I know she did. But, well, I think we need to see her together, show her that we found each other. First, I have to find him.”

  11

  Dream Sequence

  Darkness shrouded the city, and slumber overtook even those who would fight sleep. The need to rest and to dream became paramount.

  Raiford Reynolds took the files he had found regarding his birth and adoption to his home and read every word as he sat on his sofa with Cyclops purring beside him. He had often had strange dreams about someone who looked like him. Now, he understood why. He yawned and put his head back.

  “The nightmares, Cyclops. Some nights I dread falling asleep.” He rubbed the cat’s head. “I frequently keep long hours, which usually gives me a migraine. Now, I’m on meds—Ambien to sleep undisturbed.”

  However, on this night he did not take a sleeping pill. Neither did he hear the folder slip from his lap onto the floor. The dreams that came to him both disturbed and calmed his exhausted mind.

  Time rewound…He was an early teen, plowing furrows; and he smelled the new-turned earth, at first a pleasant aroma. Then, the same scent sickened him as he stood between two graves, freshly dug.

  Time went further back…He was a boy framing a house with a deeply bronzed older man. The man referred to drawings and remarked in heavy Cajun, “These are perfect, Ray. How did you do this so well? You have to do this for a living. I don’t want you to dig in the dirt like me.”

  Time fast forwarded…He was in college. He felt a searing pain in his head from a brutal blow. A disharmony of voices floated around him, and a woman’s voice saying good-bye left him in a heap upon the floor.

  Once more, time flew forward...As a grown man, he placed a kiss on the forehead of a gray-haired woman in a coffin. He instantly floated into the presence of an auburn-haired angel who slept peacefully above him.

  Ray woke himself when he mumbled, “I’d like to be there.” Sitting up, he said, “That wasn’t my life—it was my brother’s.” The weird connection he had felt as a child in his dreams solidified. He released a long puff of air, picked up the cat, and went to bed. “I know that place in my dream, Cyclops. Where is it?” the detective asked his feline friend as he stroked the animal and drifted to sleep again.

  ♣♣♣

  Larkin Sloan watched the man who held her captive sleep. Strangely, she felt his presence in her life would keep her safe. She had no fear of the man and lay back easily. She wondered if her captor could be the man of her dreams as she drifted off to sleep.

  In spite of being a captive, Larkin slept peacefully in her new surroundings. For years, she had dreamed about a faceless man, always with dark hair. Lately, she had dreamed of blue eyes. At all times, the presence of this man gave her a feeling of security. She loved this faceless creature, whoever he was.

  The man with dark hair and beautiful blue eyes who slept on the floor left his body and the place where they were. She left her body and followed. She felt the need to keep him from walking into grave danger, a danger she thought she knew.

  She watched the man walk aimlessly around the city. As they turned a corner, she lost sight of him. He vanished. Fear overtook her, and the only recourse she had was to go back to where she had left the body.

  When she walked in, the man sat on the bed. He remarked in a familiar voice, “I’ve been looking for you and him.” He pointed to the body of her captor still asleep on the floor.

  “What do you mean?” she asked. “That’s you.”

  The man on the bed shook his head. “That’s not me. I’m right here. Where is he? I need to find the two of you so I can take care of you.”

  She started awake. Her captor, a captive within himself, slept on the floor. Nonetheless, she knew that for her at this moment in time, she was in the safest place she could be. She reached down and gently stroked the ebony hair of a man who had captured her heart.

  ♣♣♣

  Chris Milovich slipped under the covers in her hotel room. Usually she tossed and turned quite some time before she fell asleep. This night she drifted into another world immediately.

  Her normal dreams of a faceless child that she was alway
s chasing were replaced with another disturbing dream. She walked into the police station to find her friend and temporary partner in pieces like a jigsaw puzzle on the floor. As hard as she tired, she could not put him together. There was a big piece missing.

  Behind her, she heard, “Ahem.” She turned to see the man whole and complete standing behind her. He said, “I think you’re missing this piece.” He pulled out his own heart and handed it to her.

  She placed the beating heart in the puzzle and it fused into a perfect man in peaceful slumber. Chris turned to the man behind her. “Now, you’re incomplete,” she said, feeling tightness in her own chest.

  The man shrugged. “I’m sure mine is around here somewhere. Will you help me find it?”

  Chris nodded. “Yes, I’d like that.” She took the man’s hand.

  Eyes popped open. “Shit,” Chris said to the darkness in her room. “What was that all about? When I tell Ray about this dream, he’s gonna tell me to get some meds.” She turned over and tried to go back to sleep.

  ♣♣♣

  Ray Gautier slept curled into a ball on the floor of the old monastery. After resuming his medication, he had no trouble sleeping. He had peaceful dreams of playing with a boy so much like him as he had dreamed his whole life. There was joy in those dreams. The voices ceased to torment him. Tonight something was different.

  A million voices swirled around him as if in a whirlwind of sound before a voice, a very strong voice, called him. “Ray, let me help you.”

  Ray found the source of the voice. The cyclone stopped swirling, and the only voices he heard were his own and the one before him. He stood face-to-face with himself. He questioned, “How can you help me?”

  “Trust me.”

  “But you’re me.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  Ray screamed in his sleep and sat up. He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder as Larkin asked, “Ray, are you all right?”