CHAPTER 4
Saturday, October 16, 1993
Dawn had given way to morning, but the Garden District remained so still and silent it could have been preserved in amber. Claire turned the key in the ignition and, when her engine caught, felt as if she should apologize for the disturbance. The gravel driveway crunched under her tires, compounding the offense. Across the street a man walking a small white dog looked up as if surprised to see another human being. New Orleans is not an early-to-rise city, least of all on Saturday.
The bright blue Miata was Claire's only extravagance. She'd named the car Felicia because sitting behind the wheel of the spiffy little roadster made her happy. Once she'd taken care of the difficult business with Frank, this would be a nice day for a trip to the beach. If Frank weren't at his cabin, it would still be a nice day for the beach.
She drove slowly, admiring the lovely old houses. Midday's harsh sun might reveal peeling paint, crumbling fascia and rotted soffit, but the early morning rays landed gently and blurred flaws. She slowed by one of her favorites, an Italianate mansion that was far from the biggest house in the Garden District, but one of the most graceful, and imagined a family safely asleep inside, sheltered behind tall windows made golden by the sun.
Even St. Charles Avenue was tranquil. No cluster of tourists waited in the median for a streetcar. No herd of vehicles charged from stoplight to stoplight. A left under the overpass took Claire onto the ramp that led to the elevated highway, and soon she'd left the city behind. The road narrowed to four lanes, a cement ribbon cutting through swamp forests interspersed with open water. Despite rumble strips on the shoulders, the heavy guardrails bore multiple scars from encounters with vehicles steered by the overtired, the reckless, and the inebriated.
She drove on automatic pilot, distracted by the challenge of refusing a proposal that had never been made. With every mile traveled, the situation felt more ridiculous. Why tell Frank she wouldn't marry him when he'd never mentioned the possibility? Not to her, but he'd told his secretary and he'd told his best friend. Or had he?
What if he was involved with someone else named Claire and everyone just assumed she was that someone? But what explained a diamond watch worth thousands of dollars? The watch was far too expensive a gift to accept from a client, no matter how wealthy or how apologetic, and Frank would know that. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
Directions to Frank's fish camp lay on the passenger's seat. The watch sat in her glove compartment. She had rehearsed what to say. She was nervous, but she'd taken her morning meds, and the vial in her pants pocket held more if she needed it, which wasn't likely. She hadn't suffered a full-fledged panic attack in months.
Worst case, Frank wouldn't be there. No. Worse case, he'd laugh in her face.
Her exit was in six miles.
Off the highway, each turn led deeper into the country. Across cleared fields, barns and houses seemed to hover in the mist. The fields gave way to forested wetlands, and the structures disappeared. The pavement ended, reminding her that Frank had suggested she drive the company truck. He always took his Jeep. She downshifted into second and drove slowly to avoid kicking up gravel or scraping Felicia's low-slung underside.
The last road, its dirt surface as bumpy as an old-fashioned washboard, ran along the top of an obsolete levee. The river must have moved or been moved. On either side, the land dropped away and ground fog turned treetops into leafy islands. Two hawks soared overhead. One dove into the fog and emerged seconds later, a small bird dangling from its talons. Up on the left, tree trunks painted with Frank's initials in bright orange marked the turn to his fish camp.
She steered between them onto a narrow and rutted dirt track that snaked down the side of the levee. As she descended, the fog closed in, the sun disappeared, and the temperature dropped. She crept along, in first gear now, leaning forward and peering through the windshield, but still unable to see more than a few feet ahead. Smoke mixed with the moldy forest smell and thickened the fog--Frank must have built a fire to ward off the morning chill.
The smell of smoke intensified and a lightening up ahead suggested a break in the trees. She drove into a clearing where a dark silhouette emerged from the fog. The burned remains of a small building sat atop blackened pilings. Ashes and charred rubble covered the ground. Fog swirled through the wreckage and reached long fingers toward her.
A silver Jaguar, coated with ash and barely visible in the fog, was parked beside the cabin.
Claire slammed on the brakes, and her engine stalled. She scrambled from the car and ran across the clearing, leaping blackened spars and chunks of roof, heedless of possible danger from smoldering embers. She brushed the ashes from the license plate. Palmer 1.
Frank had told her he never took the Jaguar down here, but this was his car, his vanity plate. The driver's door was unlocked and the car empty. Keys lay in the console as if the driver would return any moment.
Stunned, she stared at what remained of Frank's cabin. Skeletons of walls rose stark and irrelevant, supporting nothing. The roof had fallen in. A scorched metal stovepipe disappeared in the fog, and a bit of stairway dangled from what must have been the front deck. She walked over and tried to reach the lowest step, but it was too high up. And it didn't matter. No one could have survived inside that.
She rested her forehead against the car roof and gathered her thoughts. Jeanette had said Frank and Hatch planned to go fishing in the Gulf, and they often stayed out overnight. They were probably out in his boat and didn't even know there'd been a fire.
The dirt track continued down toward the water. She followed it, walking faster, half running now despite the thick fog and muddy ground. A protruding root sent her sprawling. She struggled back to her feet, saw that she'd ripped her slacks, and proceeded more carefully. The track ended at a bulkhead and a wooden dock. A white cabin cruiser was moored at the end of the dock, looking like a ghost ship in the mist.
"Hello? Hello, anyone there?"
A seagull squawked the only response. It hovered overhead and scolded as she ran the length of the dock and jumped on board.
The cabin, like the car, was unlocked. Claire studied the elaborate control panel and pushed the power button for what looked like a ship-to-shore radio. Nothing happened. She held the button down--still nothing. She looked under the console. No switch, and all the wires appeared to be attached. The dials and gauges told her nothing. She tried other buttons, but nothing responded. Maybe the boat engine had to be on, but she didn't have the key.
She trudged back to the fog-shrouded clearing and the burned ruin that had been Frank's cabin. The pervasive smoke stung her throat, made her stomach churn and her eyes tear. Or was she crying?
It was the smoke. That's what they'd told her when she went to the morgue to identify Tom's body. There were no visible burns. The damage was all on the inside where hot smoke seared his lungs and stole his breath.
Her unease intensified into apprehension and then dread, the sense of impending doom that signaled the beginning of a panic attack. Her therapist had told her that most people's panic attacks were metallic--the taste in their mouths, the chains around their chest, the weights on their arms and legs. Hers were made of scorched plastic, a dark gray bubble that cut her off from the rest of the world.
She pulled the vial from her pocket and wrenched it open. The smooth container slipped through her trembling fingers, spilling the pills. She dropped to her knees and sifted through the ashes until she felt a small hard oval. Gratefully, she swallowed it. Ash coated her lips and gritted on her teeth, but she didn't care. She found two more pills, swallowed one and put the other back.
The bubble's not real. Inhale two three; exhale two three. It's not real. Hold on until the pills kick in.
The therapist had taught her to manage her panic by visualizing gentle surf. If she could see waves breaking on a beach--one after the other, slow and steady--their rhythm would calm her, guide her breath and help her re
gain control. She'd practiced until she could imagine waves in a store, in a meeting or walking down the street, but not now. This morning, she could see only ashes.
The bubble began to contract, closing in until thick plastic restrained her arms and legs. It compressed her chest, covered her face and sealed her eyes. The stench of burned plastic filled her nose and mouth. Fear of a panic attack merged with the attack itself. Her heart pounded against her ribs, each beat sending sharp pains across her chest and down her arms. She couldn't see. She couldn't breathe. She was dying.
* * * *
Claire drifted back to consciousness in the lethargy that follows a panic attack, unsure where she was or how she'd gotten there, and too tired to care. Gradually, she became aware of her body, heavy and unresponsive. Of the ash-covered ground on which she lay, of the cold, the damp, the smoke. She turned her head and saw her car, remembered looking for Frank and finding the burned cabin.
There it was, behind her.
She had to get out of here, had to find a phone and report the fire. She pulled her sweater over her nose and staggered to her car. When it started, she wept with relief.
She drove as fast as she dared up the bumpy track, out of the fog and into the sunshine on top of the levee. Once away from the eerie clearing, she calmed down. She told herself that she'd over-reacted because of what happened to Tom. Frank and Hatch weren't children. If they'd been in the cabin, they would have escaped. Frank said he always drove his Jeep, but it wasn't there. They could have gone somewhere in the Jeep and left the Jag behind. Or they were out on the Gulf fishing with some of Frank's friends on another boat. They were probably okay, but she should report the fire.
Shortly after she reached a paved road, the extra meds kicked in. Groggy and disoriented, Claire wandered for what seemed like hours before finding the highway, which was now full of cars heading toward the Gulf. She squeezed in behind a minivan with surf mats tied onto the roof and followed it to a parking lot across from the beach.
"Are you okay, ma'am?"
Claire lifted her head from the steering wheel. A man stood beside her car. He looked concerned.
"I'm fine. Just tired." Her tongue was thick in her mouth, and she slurred her words. He watched, frowning now, as she swung her legs out of the car and pulled herself upright. "I'm really fine." She'd taken too many pills. He probably thought she was drunk.
Across the street, wooden stairs led down to the beach. She held on to the railing, and took the steps one at a time like a toddler just learning to walk. Down on the sand, she threaded her way through the towels and blankets, sand sculptures and volleyball games, apologizing when she bumped someone, and followed the water line to a quiet spot at the far end of the beach.
The steady rhythm of the waves comforted her. One, two, three... She counted up to seven and then backwards from seven to zero. Up to seven and back down again, over and over. She counted waves, dozed off, half woke to count some more, and dozed off again. Water splashed her thighs and startled her awake. The tide must be coming in. She moved back up the beach and thought about this morning.
Doctor Bennett had warned that drugs and visualization could help manage her panic attacks, but the only cure was to address the underlying cause--whatever had frightened her so badly she'd suppressed it and, when reminded of it, panicked rather than face it. The attacks had begun after Tom died. They were clearly related to his death, but even with therapy, she hadn't been able to find how. There was nothing suppressed about her sorrow. She mourned him every day.
What could she be afraid of? The worst had already happened.
Smoke had contributed to this morning's panic attack--she was sure of that--and it had followed her here. Hours later and miles away she could still smell it. She sniffed the sleeve of her blouse. The scent was in her clothes, which were also mud-stained and wet. She needed clean clothes--and something to drink. She was dehydrated, her lips stuck to her teeth and her eyes scratched as if she had sand under her lids. How many pills had she taken?
There were stores up on the street. Someone would be selling soda, someone would know who to call about the fire, and there'd be a phone she could use. She stopped by the public rest room to tidy up and gazed in dismay at the creature in the mirror--tangled hair, tear-striped face and bloodshot eyes, torn wet clothes covered with mud and ashes. No wonder people had stared.
* * * *
Night had fallen by the time Claire returned to her carriage house. Dorian, who'd been waiting on the porch, meowed and rubbed figure eights around her legs as she unlocked the front door. She picked him up and carried him inside. The red light on her answering machine was blinking. Frank? The Lafourche Parish Sheriff's Department? She'd reported the burned cabin to them and left her number. Although once the operator learned the fire was out, she hadn't seemed very interested.
The message was from Bobby Austin.
"I don't want to worry you, Claire. We both know Frank likes to get off on his own, but I'd appreciate a call if you know how to reach him." He recited a phone number and after a pause, added, "Marie joins me in wishing you and Frank the very best, a lifetime of happiness together."
"Frank and I are not getting married." Claire shook her head, and pain zigzagged across her forehead.
No one answered the phone at Frank's house. She called Bobby back and got no answer there either. It was Saturday night and no one was home. She didn't know Jeanette's last name, much less her phone number. She gave Dorian a can of tuna, an apology for the late supper, and killed time picking dead leaves off houseplants while she waited for ten o'clock and the local news. It anything had happened to Frank Palmer, it would be news.
The opening promo promised an update on the tragic story from Lafourche Parish after the break. Claire sat through an endless series of commercials, chewing on her lip and afraid of what she was going to hear. Finally, the news team reappeared.
"James Oreille, the seventeen-year old Raceland resident who was injured in a vehicle explosion Wednesday afternoon, has died of his injuries. Dirk Stone brings us an update live from the scene. Over to you, Dirk."
A dark-skinned man stared into the camera. Behind him spotlights cast bright circles onto a parking lot. Their beams bounced off ribbons of yellow crime tape and disappeared into a large hole burnt into the asphalt. In the background, neon signs advertised beer and snack foods. The man raised a handheld microphone to his mouth.
"Wednesday afternoon, this convenience store parking lot was the scene of a powerful explosion. It created the crater behind me and took the life of a young man. Doctors did all they could, but this afternoon, James Oreille lost his battle for life. His family is too distraught to appear on camera." He drew an audible breath. "The Lafourche Parish Sheriff's Office tells us the vehicle, an army-type Jeep, was driven here by a white male who was inside the store at the time of the explosion."
The camera panned to the storefront and then returned to the reporter, now holding up a large piece of paper.
"A police artist developed this sketch of the driver, who disappeared shortly after the explosion. A white man approximately six feet tall and 160 pounds, he was last seen wearing dark blue or black jeans and a black tee shirt."
The camera closed in, and Claire stared at the screen, dumbfounded. The drawing looked like Hatch. Jeanette had said Frank was fishing with Hatch. Hatch was Frank's driver. But the reporter hadn't mentioned another person in the Jeep. Frank told her he always took the Jeep down to his cabin, but the Jag was there.
Where was Frank? Why did the Jeep explode? Who was James Oreille?
The scene switched back to the studio. "Law enforcement officials describe this series of events as both tragic and puzzling. Anyone with any information about either the vehicle or the individual allegedly seen driving it is asked to call the Deputy Jason Corlette at the Lafourche Sheriff's office." A telephone number scrolled across the bottom of the screen.
Claire wrote the number down, but didn't pick up the phone. S
he was exhausted, and she'd already reported the cabin fire. The Sheriff's Department had her phone number, but they hadn't called her. If that really was Hatch, Frank's friends would recognize him and they'd call.
CHAPTER 5
Sunday, October 17, 1993
Captain Mike Robinson, the recently hired head of the New Orleans Police Department's Homicide Division, watched tourists jaywalk across Canal and clamber onto a waiting streetcar. If anyone noticed the light had turned red, they didn't care. A harassed traffic cop blew his whistle at a car taking advantage of the blockage to turn left under the No Left Turn sign. Chaos, but everyone seemed in a good mood.
"You ever direct traffic?" Lieutenant Al Breton, who was driving, said.
"Yes." Mike didn't elaborate. "Why the scenic route?"
"I thought we'd go by way of Bourbon Street." A sour chuckle. "They'll think we're vice."
"Long as we end up at Palmer's house." He didn't see the point, but, if annoying petty criminals made Breton feel better about working on a Sunday morning, he could have at it.
They turned onto a street littered with the debris of Saturday night. Half empty, or was it half full, plastic drink cups sat along the gutters and leaned against buildings. The heat--temperature and humidity were both pushing ninety--intensified the odors of alcohol, urine and vomit that lingered over the street. Mike switched the air conditioning to recirculate.
Their unadorned Crown Vic proceeded slowly, windows up, its occupants impervious to the baleful stares that marked their passage. The local riffraff recognized an unmarked police car and, as Breton had expected, resented the intrusion. A crunch told everyone that the cops had run over a glass bottle, a dead soldier not yet kicked to the gutter. A man in a shiny blue dress looked hopefully at their left rear tire.
"That's more like it," Breton said. "Folks ought to be praying on a Sunday morning."
"Praying?" Mike played the straight man.
Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim Page 3
