by Mark Romang
Meanwhile, deputies with guns drawn shone flashlights into every bush and behind every tree on the property, searching for someone or something. Intimidating SWAT officers milled around in tactical gear and talked to detectives, submachine guns dangling from their shoulders. Annie even saw some U.S. marshals hanging around. She recognized the marshals. The two marshals were their WITSEC representatives.
“I guess we were safe all along,” Rafter said, taking in the extensive law enforcement presence.
“I must confess I didn’t always feel safe tonight.”
“I know what you mean, Babe. We were blessed to make it out alive and unharmed. God looked out for us for sure.”
“Something supernatural happened when Arcadias shot you. There must have been an angel in the corridor with us,” Annie suggested. “There is no other explanation.”
“Maybe he stepped out of the mural.”
Annie stole a sideways glance at her husband. “Are you serious? I can’t always tell.”
“I’m just teasing, talking to calm myself down.”
They walked side by side down the blood-stained steps and crossed the yard toward a phalanx of squad cars. Annie saw the always controversial Lester Tubbs talking demonstratively with his hands. And then she did a double-take when she saw her old FBI boss, Newton Laskey, talking to the sheriff. And not far away stood Kevin Brubaker and Otis Grant, agents she used to work with.
“All we need now is the CIA, ATF and Homeland Security to show up and we’ll have just about every law-enforcement agency covered and accounted for,” Rafter said.
“I hate how our quiet life here has been turned upside down.”
“It’ll all blow over soon.”
“I can’t wait, Jon. Normalcy can’t come soon enough.”
Rafter scrunched his eyes. “Hey, isn’t that your old boss talking to Sheriff Tubbs?”
“Yeah, that’s Newton Laskey. I wonder how he became involved here.”
“I think we’ll find out pretty quick.”
They walked up to the two men. Tubbs and Laskey turned their attention to them. Newton looked at her and Jon, his face showing exhaustion and relief. “Pardon my language, Jon, but you look like hell. Are you hurt?”
Rafter shook his head. “Only my pride hurts. The red on my shirt is paint, not blood.”
“What about you, Annie? Is your face bleeding or is that paint?”
Annie pawed at her face. “It’s paint.” She looked at Laskey as she wiped at the red paint. “So how did you end up coming here, Newt?”
“I was working the town hall debate in Copeland with Brubaker and Grant. One of the candidates has a stalker. We were here to make sure the stalker didn’t crash the debate. And then after the debate ended we heard about a cop killing that took place here. So we headed over.”
“I’d much appreciate you folks telling me what happened here over the last few hours,” Lester Tubbs said, steering the conversation back toward the night’s events.
Annie nodded. “The Charbonneau brothers, along with their girlfriends, rented out all our rooms. And then they took over our house. Arcadias swears up and down a Jean Lafitte treasure cache is hidden somewhere on our property. He and his brother tied us up so they could search for the treasure. Sometime tonight a policeman came by. Arcadias stepped out onto the gallery and talked to the cop for quite a while. And then we heard gunshots,” Annie said.
Sheriff Tubbs looked at Rafter. “Colette Williams has an arrow stuck in her arm. She says you shot her with a bow and arrow. You want to explain that, Mr. Rafter?”
“They locked us up in the attic. While we were up there I found a longbow and some arrows. Annie and I figured out a way to escape the attic through the chimney. We tried to make it down to Ned Hoxley’s house. We intended to call the police from there. But we were discovered and had to take a detour into the woods. We eventually made our final stand in the gazebo. Colette shot at us several times. So I shot back with the longbow,” Rafter explained.
Annie quickly jumped into the conversation. “Do you have a laptop handy, Sheriff?”
Tubbs nodded.
“Much of what happened tonight will be on video. We have multiple hidden security cameras here. One is in the foyer, another is in the parlor, and one is on the gallery near the swing. I’m sure the slaying of the police officer was captured. All the cameras turn on at sunset. I can give you the password so you can download the digital images.”
“That would help us a great deal, thank-you.”
“Annie, are you getting the itch to come back to the Bureau yet? It’s been over three years,” Laskey said.
Annie shook her head and looked at Jon. “I like my quiet life as a bed and breakfast operator.”
“But I see you still have a knack for attracting criminals. So you might as well carry around a badge and a gun.”
“My bad luck has to stop at some point,” Annie said. She noticed Jon looking all around, scanning the grounds in every direction, concern shining in his eyes. “What is it, honey?”
Rafter looked at Laskey and Tubbs. “Where is Arcadias? Haven’t you apprehended him yet?”
Tubbs answered in his trademark southern drawl. “Not yet, but we’ll catch him. He can’t get far.”
Rafter looked toward the northwest and the distant Atchafalaya Basin. Darkness cloaked the swampy wilderness. “He’ll head for the swamp, you know that, Sheriff.”
“He’d be a fool if he does, especially on foot. The gators will eat him for lunch. And if they don’t the madness will eat him up. He’ll go stark raving mad, city boy like him.”
Rafter shuddered at the thought. “God have mercy on Arcadias,” he prayed under his breath.
Chapter 56
Two weeks later
It was the first time he’d been in the attic since the incident, and this time he felt no stress whatsoever. With Frank Sinatra crooning The Best is Yet to Come from a nearby boom box, Rafter reached into a five-gallon bucket with his trowel and scooped up some mortar.
For the past few days he’d been repairing the damage left behind by the Charbonneaus. Luckily the damage was minor for the most part and easy to fix. There had been a few holes where he had to repair the plaster, and a few murals he needed to touch up, but that was it. The only damage they turned into their homeowner’s insurance had been the hole cut into the ceiling in the pantry.
Earlier this morning he’d nailed a new baluster to the widow’s walk where the old one snapped off. He planned to paint it later if the repairs to the chimney went smoothly. Annie wanted to reopen for business by summer, a little over eight weeks away, so he’d put everything else on hold, donned his tool belt and went to work.
Rafter picked up a brick and buttered one side with the mortar and set it into place. He then wiped off the excess mortar. He wasn’t an expert bricklayer by any stretch. He was actually a newbie at it. To learn how to lay bricks he’d watched a YouTube video. He figured since the repair was up here in the attic and out of sight it didn’t have to be pretty, just functional and safe.
Rafter didn’t mind making the repairs too much. Hard work benefited the body and soul. And he’d grown accustomed to endless remodeling. He’d been making minor repairs to the house for the past ten years, ever since he relocated to Louisiana. A house this old requires constant refurbishment.
Making the repairs also kept him in check. If he didn’t have to work on the house he would spend all his time painting. And his passion for painting would turn into an obsession; much like Arcadias obsessed about finding Lafitte treasure. He didn’t want to fall into the same trap.
His painting had to come fourth in the pecking order. God and His Kingdom came first, and then Annie, followed by Grace, their infant daughter they’d brought home only four days ago. He never wanted to deviate from that order. But it was hard to keep the proper order and remain selfless. He battled a persistent urge to barricade himself into his art studio and do nothing but work on his art. There were so ma
ny scenes in his mind he wished to paint, and not nearly enough time to paint them.
Rafter picked up another brick, but then set it back down. He had never checked the other side of the chimney to see if there were any loose bricks there. He stood up, grimaced at the kink in his back, and then moved around to the chimney’s backside.
He sank to his knees once again and tapped at a brick with his trowel. The brick quivered slightly. Rafter set down his trowel and tried wiggling the brick with his hand. The brick indeed moved from its place. Perturbed, he tried another brick. And this one moved as well. Rafter sighed and rolled his eyes. This chimney is in worse shape than I thought.
Rafter tried other bricks adjacent and above the ones he just moved. He found seven more bricks all in the same vicinity. Rafter pulled a chisel out of his tool belt. He began to chip away at the loose mortar with a hammer.
What he hated most about repair projects were the surprises. He hadn’t counted on finding more loose bricks. So the time he allotted for this repair just ballooned, throwing his schedule all out of whack.
Stay calm, stay happy. It’s no big deal, he told himself. Rafter went to work and concentrated on his nearby boom box. He sang along with Sinatra as Frank crooned Fly Me to the Moon. Time fled as he worked. After a half hour of chipping he’d removed all the failing mortar from between the bricks.
Rafter grabbed a pry bar lying nearby. His subconscious must’ve known the job would increase in size. Otherwise he would’ve forgotten the tool. Rafter placed the pry bar tip underneath one of the bricks and pried gently.
All seven bricks suddenly collapsed onto the floor. Surprised by the mini-avalanche, Rafter jerked backwards, sitting down hard on his butt. Dust billowed up.
Rafter coughed and shook his head. Well, I just gained some time there, he thought with a grin.
After the dust cleared a bit, he stacked all the bricks to the side and prepared to clean up the debris field of mortar crumbs and dirt. That’s when he noticed something odd, something unexpected.
A small compartment or cubbyhole existed inside the chimney and stretched out onto the floor. A secondary wall partitioned the cubbyhole from the chimney wall. Rafter grabbed a penlight from his tool belt and shined the LED light into the compartment.
His heart sped up. Chills slinked up his back when he spied a box sitting inside the hole. Rafter reached into the cubbyhole and pulled at the box. But the box was heavy and hardly moved, and because the box looked like it had been there for multiple generations, he suspected that the box stuck to the floor.
Rafter transferred the flashlight to his mouth and reached in both his hands and tugged. A grunt escaped his lips. A sweat droplet fell from his brow onto the dusty floor. The box broke free and slid toward him. It made a scraping sound as he dragged it through pieces of old mortar.
Feeling a bit like an archaeologist discovering an ancient secret, Rafter slid the box all the way out from its hidden compartment. He pulled the flashlight from his mouth and shined its beam onto the box.
Man, this thing is old, he thought. Rafter guessed the box was about twelve inches wide by twenty-four inches long and maybe eighteen inches high. The stain coating on the box had darkened over two centuries’ time. A rusty padlock hung from the lid.
Rafter traced his index finger along some lettering burned onto the lid. He could only recite a few words and numbers in Spanish, but he could tell the lettering on the box was definitely Spanish in origin.
The letters barely showed up against the darkened wood. Rafter shone his flashlight on the letters. La propiedad de Nuestra Senora de Cerredos. He let out a low whistle. Excitement welled up in him, and an overwhelming sense of curiosity made him shine his flashlight back into the cubbyhole.
He saw a small object and reached for it. His fingers grasped the metal object. He pulled it out and looked at a large rusty key. Rafter laid the key by the box and pulled his phone from his pocket. He sent a text to Annie downstairs. Can u come up to the attic?
He waited impatiently for her response. Several seconds later she texted him back. I’m coming right up. A few moments later he heard her come up the stairs, heard the top step squeak. Rafter positioned himself in front of the box.
Annie entered the attic. “Where are you?”
“I’m by the backside of the chimney.”
Annie made her way over to him.
“Is Grace sleeping?”
Annie smiled. “Like a baby.”
Rafter grinned. “I have something to show you.” He scooted over, allowing the box to come into view.
“It’s an old wooden box. Where did you find it?”
“I found it hidden in the chimney. I discovered some more loose bricks. When I removed them I found a secret compartment. The box was inside.”
“Is this what I think it is?”
Rafter nodded. “I think this box contains what Arcadias was searching for.”
“Did you find a key as well?”
Rafter held the key up.
“Wow, it’s so corroded. If you look at it wrong the key might snap in half.”
Rafter held the key out to Annie. “Do you want the honor, Babe?”
Annie smiled and dropped to her knees beside him. She took the key from his hand. “I would love to.” Annie slid the key into the slot on the padlock’s body. She looked at him for a tense second, and then slowly turned the key. The shackle opened. She removed the lock and set it on the floor. “Let’s open it together. We’ll each grab an end.”
Rafter nodded. He grabbed the lid’s left corner. “Are you ready?”
“I am. I want to see what eluded Bobby and Rose and Arcadias.”
“Okay then. Let’s do it,” Rafter said and lifted his end. Annie did the same with her end. The lid creaked open on corroded hinges.
They both exclaimed at what greeted them from inside the box. Even in the dim light the gold doubloons seemed to sparkle like wavelets on a sun-splashed lake. Slack-jawed, Rafter gaped at the doubloons, disbelief slowly giving way to belief. “I’m surprised there is still this much in here. Maybe the Whitcombs didn’t spend as much of it on the parties as Ned thought.”
“I would imagine it was pretty hard to spend it without raising eyebrows,” Annie said.
Rafter reached into the treasure box and lifted out a handful of doubloons and pieces of eight. The gold had a mesmerizing effect about it. He couldn’t stop looking at the coins. “Or maybe the Whitcombs simply invested some of it and used only the earnings.”
Annie put a hand over his hand and brought it down toward the box. “So what are we going to do with all this Spanish gold?”
Rafter opened his fingers and allowed the coins to tumble back into the box with the others. He shut the lid. “I have an idea. But my idea would require a babysitter for Grace. Do you think you could get Claire down here tomorrow?”
Annie shrugged. “Tomorrow is pretty short notice. But if Claire is home she’d break the speed limit getting down here. She can’t wait to babysit.” Annie raised an eyebrow. “So what do you have in mind?”
Rafter looked at his wife. His hazel eyes narrowed. “Oh nothing much, just a little boat ride.”
Chapter 57
March 12, 2009
I have decided this will be my last journal entry. My brain is rarely sharp enough to write down anything worthwhile, and arthritis in my hand makes it difficult for me to write. There is just no getting around the fact I am an old, old woman.
My beauty faded long ago. My hair is wispy and white, my teeth are gone and I wear two hearing aids. I sound like I am complaining, but I’m not. Health decline happens when you live a long time like me.
Although my life has been marked by loneliness and heartbreak, I’ve rather enjoyed my life. I’ve lived in this grand old house for parts of nine decades. And I’ve loved more passionately and stronger than most. I’ve been blessed to know and love three remarkable men in my lifetime: my father, Bobby, and now Jon Rafter.
As
I sit in my wheelchair and jot down these words, I watch Jon with keen interest as he paints a mural in the foyer. His skill as an artist is mindboggling. And watching the mural come together stroke by meticulous stroke is a treat. I can almost hear David playing his harp so beautifully for King Saul.
God has truly blessed Jon with an amazing talent. I know someday he will gain fame for his work. And I know he will handle the fame well. Jon is a high-character man. Although he has never told me what brought him here to Louisiana, I know he has experienced pain. I can sense it. And somehow through this most unlikely of relationships, we are both helping each other sort through our heartbreak.
I thank God for bringing Jon here almost every day. He is kind and compassionate and has become like a son to me. He does so much for me, drives me around town and takes me to all my doctor appointments. Sometimes I have to convince myself that he is only a mortal man and not an angelic being.
I can never repay Jon for everything he has done for me. So I have decided to bequeath him this house. I keep having dreams of children running around in this house, playing and laughing. And the children are Jon’s. So how could I not give him this house?
I have already proceeded with the legalities. An estate attorney came over and drew up the papers. And I signed them. My living will is legal and binding. After my last appointment where my doctor said my Alzheimer’s is progressing rapidly, I decided to not waste any time getting my affairs in order.
Soon the Lord will take me home. And Bobby will be waiting for me. Our dream of marriage never happened on earth, and it won’t happen in heaven either. But I know Bobby is ready to dance with me all the same.
Just before Jon arrived here, I hired a contractor to pour a concrete wall in the pantry. I climbed the servant staircase countless times over the years and always visited the secret room, reliving my last night with Bobby. Climbing the narrow and dark staircase eventually became too difficult for me as I aged. So I removed the temptation.
