by Corey Brown
This is a work of fiction.
All names, characters, businesses, organizations, government organizations, branches of the military, events, places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
© 2016 Second Edition Corey Brown
All rights reserved
No part of this document may be reproduced, stored in any type of retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
Cover art is provided by Symbology Creative
symbologycreative.com
Also available in print by CreateSpace, an Amazon.com company.
Acknowledgments
For their support and encouragement, many thanks to:
My family, Laura, Joel, Scott and Carrie.
My parents, Robert and Patricia Brown, William and Marilynn Graham.
My siblings, Susan and Robert.
My proof reader: Laura Brown, thank you for your hard work.
For Marilynn Jean Graham
With grateful hearts we think of you
But our memories are bittersweet
Because remembering
Is like losing you
All over again
“Suddenly, the moral instinct alone does not answer. You are on your own, trying to find direction in a world, in which, there are no marked paths. You are sitting across from pure evil. What do you do now?”
--- United Nations Secretary General, Kofi Anan; Time Magazine, September 4th, 2000.
Contents
Part 1: 1968
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Part 2: 1978
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Part 3: 2001
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Other Books by Corey Brown
Part 1: 1968
Chapter 1
A few miles south of a little town called Krotz Springs, just off J.P. Oil Road and in the middle of nowhere, there was a small, wood-framed building. Erected by pockets of the faithful poor living in Saint Landry Parish, the church stood alone on a dead-end dirt track under the shade of oak, beech and pine trees.
There was a path of crushed stone winding to the front door. The walkway was shadowed by magnolias, the age-old trees spreading their branches like gnarled, arthritic fingers, and for no apparent reason this building held sway on three acres of patchy lawn. Like a moat, the dying grass held the forest at bay, keeping out the wild.
On one side of this old, tired structure was a vibrant flowerbed, thick with red roses and violets and lilies and tulips. This fit of color against an otherwise black on white image of forest was unexpected, like sudden sight to those born blind.
But some creatures revel in the discordant energy between black and white and those Louisiana flowers.
Coiled in the flowerbed, a brown and orange corn snake warmed itself in the morning sun. Within this natural setting but out of step with the rhythm of nature, an old woman walked. She exited the back door of the deteriorating church and drifted across the lawn, moving toward the forest. The late afternoon sun dappled her milky skin, marking a contrast against her dark, red lips.
Despite the ninety degree heat the old woman wore a rotting linen shawl. As if cold, she tugged at the garment, draping it more fully over her shoulders. She considered the idea of body temperature, thought about how frozen might feel, then tugged at the wrap once more and wondered what it was like to breathe.
As the woman reached the forest periphery, she turned and looked back at the corn snake. She frowned, it was a disappointment. What about the cottonmouth, where was that old demon?
The woman shut her eyes and pretended to inhale. She pretended to hold air in her lungs, pretended to exhale. Arching her back, she faced the lazy, blue sky and started to rise.
Heels first then toes, the old hag lifted upward, cutting the ties of gravity. As terra firma slipped away, she rose above the treetops and drifted south, then east then farther south. Soon, she passed over the section of forest that would eventually be split in two by Interstate Ten. She looked toward Baton Rouge, in her mind she saw tall buildings stabbing at the sky, imagined the river city as if it were tethered to a someday strip of concrete.
Inclining her head, the woman rocketed one million, eight hundred feet above the earth. Arching over the geography between Baton Rouge and New Orleans she plunged back toward the planet. Her inability to feel the icy-cold of space was just as effective against the three thousand degree heat she sensed as she fell back through the stratosphere.
As a matter of record, the North American Air Defense Command logged her flight as an anomaly, a systems glitch; unofficially Cheyenne Mountain spent the next six hours evaluating data and communicating with the FAA, NASA, the FBI, the CIA and the NSA. For three of those six hours, the Pentagon declared the Armed Services to be at Defense Readiness Condition Two. Nationwide, U.S. fighter jets were scrambled and young men in missile silos far below Nebraskan soil contemplated the end of the world.
As Air Force pilots scanned American skies for threats and United States servicemen prepared for the worst, Leonid Brezhnev, General Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, received several calls on the red phone. Those calls mobilized the Russian military and they prepared for their own version of ‘the worst’, whatever that was, and goddamn those Americans, what the hell were they talking about? Brezhnev was issuing orders, LBJ was hustled off to a bomb shelter deep beneath the White house and from coast to coast, patriots readied themselves for battle.
Unaware of the global panic left in her wake, the sorceress sloughed off the imagined burn of re-entering Earth’s atmosphere. Running low, she cruised over Lake Maurepas. Crossing on to Lake Pontchartrain, she drifted lower, closer to the surface, admiring the muddy, poisoned water. She loved the sweetness of decay.
«»
Malveaux’s phone was ringing. He could hear the tinny clang down the hall, that bell with its half-broken sound. Malveaux could just picture the puke green handset. Annoyed, he glanced toward his office door, trying to decide if he should answer the call. Dark ovals of perspiration spread out from his underarms. He swiped at the trail of moisture running down his temple.
“Hold on,” Malveaux said, turning away. Taking three steps, he stopped, turned back. “Where the hell’s maintenance?” He pointed at Detective Laroche and said, “You. Find out what’s going on with the air conditioning. Christ, this heat is unbelievable.”
“Sorry, Captain,” Laroche said. “I was just getting ready to take off. I got a lead to chase down.”
Malveaux flexed his shoulders, his body becoming rigid. Anger flashed in Malveaux’s liquid blue eyes, his posture a study in physiology. This police captain was a bulky man. Not quite fat, not quite trim, but his presence was imposing. He had a round fleshy face, closely cropped black hair, and a don’t-fuck-with-me de
meanor; it was caveman meets crew-cut stuffed into a NOPD uniform.
Remy Malveaux narrowed his eyes. “You think I was asking, no? Now, you do what I tell you and pick up the goddamned phone.”
“Uh, no disrespect,” Laroche started to say.
“We’ll do it,” Detective Conboy said, getting to his feet, intercepting. “We’ll call maintenance.”
Malveaux looked at Conboy then back at Laroche.
“But they already said it’ll be a few days,” Conboy offered. “This heat wave has every AC unit on the fritz.”
Annoyed, Malveaux stared at Laroche. That face, shaved clean, so professional. If the heat wasn’t so goddamned unbearable, he would… what? Malveaux caught himself. Laroche was just sitting there, not listening, not calling maintenance; just being a goddamned nigger. I’ll do something, Malveaux thought. I’ll do something soon enough.
“But we’ll call ‘em, boss,” Conboy added, a nervous tinge to his voice. ‘We’ll call maintenance.”
“Do that,” Malveaux growled.
Malveaux stormed off, moments later his office door slammed, the sound echoing through the squad room.
“What is your problem, man?” Clarence Conboy said, folding his arms, glaring at Laroche. “Payday ain’t until next week, you looking to get yours early?”
Russell Laroche stood, his calves bumping against his chair, the wheels squeaked as it rolled. He slipped on a dark gray sport coat and adjusted his silver tie.
“Something is not right with that guy,” Russell said, jutting his chin toward Malveaux’s office.
“Well, no shit? Malveaux is a lunatic, which is exactly why you don’t want to mess with him.”
“I’m not afraid of him,” Russell said, still looking down the hall.
Conboy exhaled sharply. “You should be. Everyone else is.”
In his office, Malveaux sat down hard, the battered wood chair groaning under his large frame. Placing each hand, palm down, on his desk, he straightened his back and took in a breath then picked up the phone by the ninth ring.
“This is Malveaux.”
A moment’s hesitation on the line then, “Hi, Remy, it’s me.”
Malveaux grunted and said, “Oh, for God sakes, Laci. I’m working here. How many…”
In her mind, Remy’s voice drifted, faded away. All Laci Malveaux could hear was his dirty southern accent as it stretched out the word ‘here’, making it sound like hee-ya. I’m woikin’ hee-ya. God, how she hated that thick, rusty voice. Remy’s words were like pinpricks on her eardrums.
How many… how many what? What was Remy saying? Why had she called him, what in the world was she thinking?
As soon as these questions tumbled though her mind, Laci knew exactly why she had called. Remy would eventually find out. He always found out.
“Laci?” Remy said. “Goddamnit woman, did you hear me?”
“What? I’m sorry Remy, the phone cut out. What…did you say?”
“Jesus Christ, what in hell do you want?”
“Um, nothing.” Laci swallowed, wondering how to answer. “I’m sorry, Remy. I shouldn’t have bothered you. What would you like for dinner?”
Silence punctuated the tension on the line.
“You interrupted me to ask ‘bout dinner?” Malveaux said, quietly. Once more, he drew a sharp breath then let it out very slowly. When he spoke again his voice was painfully measured. “Laci, I be gettin’ home soon, an’ when I do, we gonna discuss this again. Your interruptions got to stop. Uh-huh, oh yeah, they gotta stop and that is for sure. This time, I promise, you gonna take it to heart.”
Remy Malveaux carefully replaced the handset and stared at the phone, a line of swear words chained together in his mind. He rubbed his forehead for a moment then snatched up the puke green phone and hurled it. The unit banged against the wall, gouging, sending chunks of plaster into the air. Ringer bells tinkled as the phone gashed the wall then tumbled to the floor where it landed making another loud, bell-like noise.
Malveaux closed his eyes, rubbed at his temples and leaned back. The goddamned heat was making him crazy. Forget his detectives, forget Laroche, that nigger asshole. Now his goddamned wife was making him crazy. And, Jesus, why had he married that bitch in the first place?
Why, indeed. Sex was always the first reason that came to mind, but twenty some-odd years into this marriage and it was obvious Laci was not exactly the jackpot. Hell, she wasn’t even a consolation prize. Why didn’t he just dump the old battle-axe for someone else, someone younger? Why not leave Laci? All kinds of women were after him, what was it that made him stick around, stay with her?
Sex. That was it. Sure, he could have anyone— a street slut or a rich man’s wife, anyone he wanted, but to this day having sex with Laci, keeping her, was all that mattered. Only the Devil knew why.
Still, she grated on him, like a tiny sliver just under the skin, always stabbing, always stinging. The only good thing about being married to that Omaha tramp was his daughter, Celine. She was his baby girl, his darling.
“Does it work better that way?”
Startled, Malveaux opened his eyes and looked in the direction of the voice. The corner of his mouth lifted into a sophomoric grin.
“Seriously, Remy, throwing the phone, does that make it work better?”
Malveaux grinned wider but at once, his expression turned sour. “That goddamned whore,” he said, shaking his head. “She pisses me off like you can’t believe. I swear…”
“Which whore? Your wife or that little spic over on Tchoupitoulas you pump every other day?”
Malveaux chuckled, tipping forward in his chair, scratching his head. “Not the spic, no. It’s---” He stopped, looked up at Henri Savoy and frowned. “Hey, why you in dress blues?”
Tall, tanned, robust-looking, Savoy shifted an unlit cigar to the other side of his mouth, his face twitched as he did so. A starched, white cuff slid past a blue coat sleeve as Savoy extended his arm. He looked at the Rolex then said, “Remy, you got just sixty-six minutes until the meeting.”
“It’s tonight?”
Savoy nodded. “Uh-huh.”
“Oh shit,” Malveaux said, getting up. “I completely forgot. Shit, why tonight?” Malveaux cast his eyes about, trying to decide what to do. “Laci called. She was asking about dinner. But I think there’s more to it, I gotta run home. Give me some time, on about forty minutes or so, and I’ll meet you at Charlie Sag’s. We’ll be on there early and get a beer, see some tits.”
«»
Laci Malveaux set the phone back in its cradle then rubbed her eye with the heel of her hand. Every time, every word, everything with Remy was a cross to bear, a thousand razor cuts on her soul. Now what? Remy wanted to talk? Okay, fine, they would talk. Remy’s conversations always left welts.
Before she had even entered the house, as she pulled into the driveway Laci had sensed something. Then, as she had climbed the stairs, Laci hesitated. She could hear the two of them, moans and breathless words, the sounds of lovemaking. Now, she walked to the staircase once more and looked up, listened. Laci strained to hear, wondered if her daughter’s lover was gone.
Some time from now, during the early hours of the next morning, as she struggles for breath, an odd thought will come to Laci. Suffocating, dying, swallowing pieces of her broken throat, Laci will wonder how the man had gotten out. Just how had Celine’s lover left without her knowing it?
But at the moment Laci’s bedroom was quiet. Laci glanced at the wall clock. She could not remember how long it had been since she had heard a sound from upstairs. She considered the silence, decided he must be gone, Celine’s lover must have left.
Laci looked over her shoulder, looked toward the front door as if Remy were just now walking in. If he found out about Celine—make that when Remy found out---- both mother and daughter would feel the sting of leather. That is, if they were lucky. Otherwise, the belt would only serve as the prelude.
Laci swiped at the tear forming in the cor
ner of her eye. Why had she come home so early? Bible study always lasted longer than one hour, why was tonight different? If only she had lingered, if only Harrison had been there. They would have talked, flirted. Maybe he would have made some innocuous, intentional gesture. And why wasn’t Harrison at Bible study? She sighed. If he had been there, maybe he would have touched her arm or taken her hand. Time would have passed and Celine would have been alone upon arrival. Laci would not have felt compelled to call her bastard of a husband.
A wave of humiliation swelled in Laci’s heart. What kind of mother did this, trading values for ignorance? Her unmarried, twenty-year old daughter was sexually involved with a complete stranger and the only thing Laci cared about was the fact that she knew it.
Laci swallowed, caught herself. Trading values? What a joke. She went to church, sang hymns, tithed, prayed, washed dishes after potluck and said the rosary. But in truth, her decisions were driven by the fear that Remy would disapprove. Or the hope that he might not. Going to church, praying---- none of it seemed to matter. All that mattered was staying clear of Remy.
The only thing Laci knew for sure was that she had no idea what to believe anymore. Her life was nothing more than a world of stepping stones. Her life had been reduced to choosing which path to take or, more often, which one to avoid. She had been reduced to flirting with a kind and gentle man after Bible study, while trying live a life that did not to make her husband angry.
Laci considered things. On this particular day, her friend and fantasy lover had not come to Bible study, Laci had discovered her daughter having sex in her own bedroom, in her husband’s bed, and that same son-of-a-bitch husband had as much as told her to expect a beating just for calling him at work. Laci felt a stab of wild desperation, she wanted to be angry but did not know who or what to be angry at. Although she did not realize it, what Laci really wanted was to make this day not exist, make it go away, to make herself not exist.
