A Twisted Ladder

by Rhodi Hawk

  Chloe said, “If I had told you, you would not have heard me.”

  Madeleine watched her face, listening.

  Chloe said, “If she misbehaves, try lulling her.”

  “Lulling her?”

  “A song. A rhyme. Not a gentle song. Something that reflects the place of the river devils where she came from. She won’t stay there now that she has you. But when she goes back, she’ll try to bring you there with her.”

  “How much do you know? Can you tell me how to manage this?”

  “I can help you. You have now a key to unlock the greatest secrets of the mind. And its darkest shadows.”

  Chloe looked away, and Madeleine followed her gaze to where Ethan was heading toward them with two bottles of water.

  Chloe muttered something in French that Madeleine couldn’t catch, and then said, “You distract yourself. A waste, yanh. You would have done better to join with Zenon instead of treating him as your enemy. He would be a better match for you.”

  For a moment, Madeleine wasn’t sure she’d heard her right. But before she could reply, Chloe made a sound that erupted from within her throat. She waved toward Oran, and he wheeled her away toward the door. Just like that.

  Madeleine regarded the little paper bag still in her hand and folded the top over, then tucked it inside her purse.

  Ethan joined her. He stood by her side as the mourners approached. She shook hands, embraced, and kissed dozens of people.

  “I’m sorry, Madeleine . . .”

  “Your father was such a dear man . . .”

  “He’ll always be remembered . . .”

  A cross-dressing singer, Strawberry Chiffon, kissed Madeleine and offered condolences in French through tear-streaked makeup. The mayor and former mayor greeted her. All of her father’s friends were there, and even some who were not his friends.

  Joe Whitney was there.

  He was the closest thing to an enemy Daddy Blank had, but when Madeleine looked into Joe’s eyes she saw that he was genuinely stricken.

  “Miss Madeleine,” he said, with both hands clasping hers. “I’m so very sorry for your loss. This city will miss one of its finest advocates. Your father . . .”

  No sign of his usual persona. His eyes held nothing but sadness.

  “He didn’t think much of me, I guess. But I truly did admire him. I’m sorry.”

  He patted her hand, but did not release it. He had a strange look about him, like he wanted to tell her something.

  “What is it, Joe?”

  “Miss Maddy, this may not be the time or the place.” He coughed. “But I feel I should tell you that I have taken a new client.”

  The poor man was ruffled. Madeleine had no idea what he was getting at, or why it would pain him so to tell her about his business affairs. But then she suddenly remembered seeing him at the police department the day Zenon was arrested, and her hand went cold inside his grasp.

  “I have been quietly representing Zenon Lansky since his arrest. It’ll be in the papers tomorrow.”

  Madeleine withdrew her hand. “I see.”

  Ethan said, “You’ve got to be joking.”

  Joe’s fists dropped awkwardly to his side. He hunched his shoulders in a helpless gesture. “I wanted to tell y’all myself before it came out in the papers. I—I’m loath to cause you any more distress, Miss Maddy, I’m truly sorry.”

  She stared. So Joe Whitney would defend Zenon at trial. Weird, but OK. It seemed a plausible move for Joe’s career, and it might help dilute the press regarding the mega-center scandal. But what of it? When she looked at his face, Madeleine could see that the man was battling a guilty conscience, and for Joe Whitney, that took some doing.

  “Is there something else, Joe?”

  He looked at her and then averted his eyes. “No, my dear.” He patted her arm. “Just . . . you have my heartfelt condolences.”

  He looked at Ethan and nodded. “Ethan.” He shuffled away.

  sixty-seven

  NEW ORLEANS, 1927

  JACOB FELT A TIDE of elation. He would do anything for Chloe, anything. As he stood with his arms wrapped around her, he wanted to convey all that was in his heart through that one kiss. She intoxicated him. She had a core of intense, magnetic burning.

  Despite the suffocating heat of the upper room, their bodies pressed together. He kissed her again, his mouth opening to drink her in. It stirred something within him, something that he’d only thought to enjoy with parlor maids and paid companionship. He never dared believe he might taste the purity of Chloe’s kiss, feel the taut curve of her back. He could feel sweat through her dress. He moved his lips down and tasted it at her neck. His own sweat soaked through his shirt.

  She leaned into him as if they could interlink their very bones. Her hands at his face. At his neck. And then unbuttoning his shirt. A heat overwhelmed him so fast and with such intensity that it stole the very air from the room, causing him to gasp. One by one, they tore each garment free, discarding them. The afternoon sun filled the room with light and burning.

  With nothing between them, they strained their slick bodies at each other, until Chloe was pressed against the wall as Jacob lifted himself in toward her. She threw her head to the side and bore down, groping for him while he searched with his hands on her thighs and along her downy center, stretching to enter her.

  He grew frustrated, and scooped his arms under her thighs then and carried her, anchoring her with his mouth on hers, and kicked the door open to the adjoining bedroom. He laid her on the white lace bedspread, and paused, heaving and struggling over her.

  A stillness spidered across his conscience. To take Rémi’s wife, Rémi who had helped him and his family, who had loved and cared for his sister Helen—to take his wife now while Rémi was incapacitated—it was the act of a scoundrel.

  And yet, in the echoes of his mind, doubts hinted at absolution. Rémi was beyond reach. It had been too long. He was naught but a burden to his family now, especially to Chloe.

  “Jacob, come to me,” Chloe breathed, and she clutched at him with her knees, arching her back to lift her hips and belly.

  “Chloe.”

  He sank to her, pressed his mouth to her ear and breathed her in, tasting her skin, gripping her hips, wearing her sweat. He slid his mouth down the curve of her neck, to her breasts, and then her abdomen. She rocked with him, twisting against the pressure of his tongue as it found its way to her center. Her hands gripped the bedspread and coiled into his hair. He tasted her, needed to taste her, and he held strong until she rocked and shuddered.

  She fell limp into the mattress, and then he lifted himself up and slid over her. He gripped the now supple muscles of her thighs and entered her. She gasped, struggling against him. He bucked, every muscle in his body taut, thrusting deeper and harder until she was crying out. She pinned his legs with her knees, and squeezed her circle tighter around him, as if seeking more of his skin, his muscle, his sweat, his spirit. She did want to own him, to possess him, and he knew it.

  He watched as her body rippled with a new wave of sensations, and she shouted and rocked. And he could hold back no longer. He thrust at her, his body uncoiling in release. He threw his head back with a wrenching groan, and he strained his hips at her for a long, stretching moment.

  Finally, he slumped. The room grew still.

  HE LAY ATOP HER, listening to her breathing as it gradually smoothed. He could hear sounds beyond the door, the agitated bickering of servants. Jacob ran his fingers along Chloe’s skin, savoring the feeling and the smell of her, and the scent of their sex. His breathing matched hers.

  Just beyond the door, the quarrel escalated. Angry voices raised almost to the point of shouting.

  “Qui est là?” Chloe said, annoyed.

  He rolled off onto his back. She reached for a linen.

  Jacob smiled. Few servants dared raise her ire. She rose, donned her house robe, and opened the door.

  Rémi stood at the stairwell.

&nbs
p; sixty-eight

  NEW ORLEANS, 2010

  WHEN SHE HAD BEGUN rebuilding the house on Esplanade, Madeleine had pulled the necessary permits through the city of New Orleans. The Historic Preservation Society was pleased to learn that she wished to build a close replica—double-gallery Creole Victorian—of the original house. The only relevant changes to the layout were to add modern-sized bathrooms, closets, and a kitchen. Unfortunately, some of the details that had made the old house such an amazing work of art, such as the carved marble fireplaces and elaborate moldings, were not in the budget. It had taken a coup of bureaucracy to get the permits through, but she’d managed. After that, the crew had laid the foundation and begun framing.

  It all required a great deal of money.

  Madeleine learned that the estate she’d once shared with her brother and father would indeed be liable for the other burned houses on Esplanade. The financial drain left her short of breath. She considered halting construction, but after assessing the market, she determined the only sensible course would be to finish construction and sell the property.

  Between that, the family trust, and the house in Houma, she hoped to break even. Madeleine wished she could return to work and start generating an income, but the idea of returning to a career in psychology now seemed hypocritical.

  She strolled Esplanade, observing the swarm of workers as they sawed and nailed, erecting the frame of her home. Severin strolled with her. Madeleine found that so long as she included Severin in what she was doing and kept her occupied, the outbursts were fairly minimal, and Madeleine was able to function without others becoming aware. And yet, there were days when she didn’t dare leave the flat, because she was lost in the bramble.

  “Those men have hammers,” Severin observed.

  Madeleine nodded. Though she avoided speaking to her openly in public and looking like she was talking to herself, subtle acknowledgments such as nodding or changing facial expression seemed to be enough.

  “That one killed another.” Severin pointed to a worker above who was nailing ceiling joists. “No one knows. Another man is in jail because of it, but he sent him through, truly.”

  Madeleine glanced at her, then looked back up at the worker. “Time to go.”

  They got in the truck and pulled into the street.

  Severin scowled. “I just thought to tell you something of that man.”

  “I know, Severin. I don’t really know what to do about that.”

  The girl had revealed many such injustices; things Madeleine wanted desperately to correct. But she felt powerless to do anything. And as the list of Severin’s revelations grew longer each day, Madeleine was feeling more and more overwhelmed.

  Severin kicked at the dashboard. “You don’t much listen to me! Listen! Listen! Listen!”

  Madeleine continued to drive, hands firmly on the steering wheel, trying to think of something to do to calm her down. Severin kicked, and then she turned and sank her teeth into Madeleine’s arm. Madeleine wrenched away, causing the truck to swerve. Pedestrians leapt and scattered in alarm.

  This had to stop.

  Madeleine pulled over and removed the keys from the ignition, hands shaking, and turned to Severin.

  “Why would you do that?”

  Severin gave her a hard smile. “It satisfies.”

  Severin swung her legs and kicked the dashboard again.

  My God, she is relentless.

  Madeleine remembered Chloe’s advice about lulling, and began to sing.

  Ring around the rosie

  A pocket full of posies

  Ashes, ashes

  We all fall down

  Severin stopped kicking and looked at Madeleine with interest. “What’s that you sing?”

  “It’s called ‘Ring around the Rosie.’ It’s a nursery rhyme. Haven’t you ever heard a nursery rhyme before, Severin?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well, here, I’ll teach you. Repeat after me. Ring around the rosie . . .”

  Severin looked down at her feet, losing interest. “What does it mean, all that?”

  “It’s from the Great Plague.” Madeleine emphasized the word plague. She started the truck and turned onto Rampart Street. “They called it the Black Death, because the victims’ bodies turned black when they died.”

  Severin turned back toward her with eyes full of wonder.

  “They would develop sores. Red rings on the skin. That’s why it goes ‘Ring around the Rosie.’ ”

  “Ring around the rosie,” Severin repeated. “What about the rest?”

  “A pocket full of posies, because they thought bad smells caused the disease, bubonic plague. They carried posies to hide odors. Ashes, ashes. They used to burn the bodies.”

  A shiver tickled Madeleine’s spine. She had gotten the girl’s attention, but it was such a macabre subject. She wondered if she was placating the child by talking to her this way, or taking one more step toward her own madness. The sick, violent kind of madness that Severin craved.

  “We all fall down,” Madeleine finished. “Dead.”

  The child was smiling. “How does it go again, please?”

  They repeated the words of the old nursery rhyme together. She wondered how on earth it had come to be a children’s game.

  “Ring around the rosie,” Severin announced.

  “I thought you’d like it.”

  ZENON’S TRIAL BEGAN.

  Madeleine stayed away from the courtroom, keeping interactions with others to a minimum. She feared she might slip and do or say something that revealed her secret. The case was high profile, and Madeleine glimpsed the highlights as Ethan watched the news at night. When the time approached for her to testify, Ms. Jameson called her back into the U.S. Attorney’s Office at the federal building.

  The receptionist led her to a conference room and offered her a refreshment, which she refused. Ms. Jameson appeared, explaining that they would be going over her testimony just as if she were on the stand. She began by telling how she had gone out in the little boat to the place she used to go with her brother.

  “A storm was on the way,” Ms. Jameson said. “Why did you go out there in a boat that afternoon, knowing that you’d encounter severe weather conditions?”

  “I . . . I . . .” Madeleine had had this answer ready before, but suddenly could not remember what she had said. She couldn’t very well tell her she was running away from Severin. Good God, she thought, and it’s such a simple question.

  Severin swung her legs, kicking at the table. Madeleine could feel sweat forming at her hairline.

  Ms. Jameson gave her a quizzical look. “Is something wrong?”

  Madeleine shook her head.

  “Why were you out there?”

  “I, er, was depressed. My brother had committed suicide. Out there.” She gulped. “I was selling the house. I suppose I was feeling sorry for myself, and I went to that spot because we used to go there together. I didn’t care about rain. We were raised with it.”

  The lawyer’s eyes narrowed, her chin resting on her hand. Madeleine squirmed.

  “Dr. LeBlanc,” Jameson said. “What are you looking at?”

  Madeleine’s eyes snapped up from the seat next to her, where Ms. Jameson doubtless saw nothing but an empty chair.

  “Nothing. I guess I’m a little nervous.”

  “Dr. LeBlanc, is there anything you’d like to tell me? Because if there’s any information you left out, now’s the time to let me know.”

  Madeleine’s heart thundered, and she was sure the attorney could hear it. Sweat snaked from her brow to her ear.

  “I can understand your being nervous,” Jameson said. “But the jury may interpret that as not being truthful. Our case is not as strong as I’d like it to be, and your testimony is the best evidence we’ve got. It is crucial that you appear calm and simply tell the truth.” She paused, and then said, annoyed: “Why are you humming?”

  Madeleine strangled off the nursery rhyme—she had no
t even been aware that she was humming it aloud. Get it together.

  “Habit.” Madeleine drew herself up and looked directly into the attorney’s eyes. “Ms. Jameson, I think I might help myself to some of that water after all.”

  She stood and filled a paper cup from the water dispenser, then settled back down. The lawyer’s eyes continued to drill into her.

  “I’m glad we’re doing this,” Madeleine said. “Because I didn’t even realize I was so nervous about the trial until now. There’ll be reporters in the courtroom, won’t there?”

  Jameson nodded. “Are you sure there’s nothing else you have to tell me?”

  Madeleine shook her head, maintaining eye contact.

  “Please go on,” Jameson finally said.

  Madeleine continued with the story, and Ms. Jameson stopped her at every turn to ask questions and prod for hidden information.

  THE INTERVIEW HAD CONTINUED for another two grueling hours, but Madeleine had held fast, maintaining composure and answering matter-of-factly. They’d hashed out the details of that night to exhaustion. The U.S. attorney relented, and she stopped looking at Madeleine as if she were a kernel of dried corn about to pop.

  Finally, Ms. Jameson indicated that the interview was over. “Dr. LeBlanc, I’d like to reiterate that it is of the utmost importance that you relax and tell this story as simply and truthfully as you can. If you’re telling the truth, you have nothing to worry about.”

  Madeleine nodded.

  “I’d also like for you to attend the trial for the next few days until it’s time to give your testimony. I think it would help if you got used to the courtroom environment.”

  The color drained from Madeleine’s face. She knew the courthouse would be swarming with reporters, and if she did anything conspicuous . . .

  But she knew Jameson was right. It was crucial that Madeleine maintain composure on the stand. She agreed.