Delusion

by Peter Abrahams

  Pirate headed nowhere particular, just wandered, a special kind of wandering that led him in the direction of Joe Don’s place. Too far to walk, of course, unless you had time, and he had lots. So what if he got there in the middle of the night? He wouldn’t disturb anyone. The barn where Joe Don lived had a window at the back. He could just peek in. Would Norah be there? A possibility. Maybe they’d be sleeping. He could watch over them, like a guardian angel. Pirate liked that idea a lot. He was starting to pick up the pace when a car pulled over to the sidewalk and crept along beside him.

  Not a car, but a pickup; it came up on his good side, so Pirate didn’t have to turn his head to see the passenger window sliding down. He heard a man’s voice: “Get in.”

  The voice: slightly familiar but Pirate couldn’t place it. And the tiny weapon? Under the mattress. At that moment, he and the pickup entered the cone of light under a streetlamp. Pirate, still walking, not slowing down, peered through the open window and got a good look at the driver. Slightly familiar, all right: former detective, now chief of the Belle Ville police, dressed like any normal guy in jeans and T-shirt.

  “Don’t think so,” Pirate said, and he kept moving.

  “Thinking’s not your strong suit,” the chief said.

  A coplike thing to say. Pirate had never liked cops, not even before the whole—uh-oh. Something gleamed inside the pickup. Pirate spotted an automatic, held loosely in the chief’s left hand, half resting on his leg and pointed in Pirate’s general direction. Would anyone really think he could shoot a man down out in the open like this and get away with it? Yeah, this guy, this particular cop. Didn’t Pirate pretty much know that for a fact? He didn’t take another step. The car stopped. He got in. The window slid up. The door locks clicked shut. The pickup rolled forward, gained speed, turned a corner and entered a dark street, with nothing but rubble piles from the hurricane on both sides.

  “We need to talk,” the chief said.

  “What about?”

  “Your plans.”

  “Got none,” Pirate said. “Be at peace, that’s all.”

  “Save that line for someone else.” Did the automatic twitch in the chief’s hand? Pirate thought so. He kept his mouth shut. The chief drove to the end of the street, circled an earthmover with tires as tall as man and stopped at the edge of some water—black and still, maybe the canal. Pirate glanced around—canal on one side, earthmover on the other: invisible. The chief lowered the windows, switched off the engine. It got quiet. Pirate heard tiny lapping sounds from the canal. How deep was the water? Pirate couldn’t swim.

  The chief shifted a little, facing him. “Your plans,” he said.

  “Nothing special,” Pirate said. “Relax. Do some writing.”

  A muscle moved in the chief’s face, casting a shadow on his skin. “What kind of writing?”

  Maybe not a good idea, bringing up the writing. But what if the chief already knew about this project with Lee Ann? Some inmates up at Central State bought into that old idea that cops never asked a question they didn’t know the answer to; not Pirate. On the other hand, there was such a thing as getting too cute. Pirate went back and forth in his mind. And then: “Songwriting,” he said. Came to him out of the blue, so sweet.

  “Done much songwriting?”

  “Workin’ on one now, matter of fact,” said Pirate. “‘Saw your face down the hall, nothin’ else matters at all.’ That one’s called—” Whoa, boy: “Norah’s Song.” “Doesn’t have a name yet.”

  “So your plan is to make it in the music business?” the chief said.

  “Yeah,” said Pirate; that hadn’t been his plan, exactly, but why not?

  “Not much of a music industry here in Belle Ville,” the chief said.

  “Nope.”

  “Leading to the obvious question.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Where are you going to go? Nashville? L.A.?”

  Pirate shrugged. “I kind of like it here.”

  The chief’s hand tightened on the gun. Pirate smelled an oily smell, rising off the canal. He could end up down on the bottom, and no one would ever know.

  “Again, the thinking problem,” the chief said.

  “No?” said Pirate. “I don’t like it here?” And at that moment, the moment of the thinking-problem accusation, Pirate remembered Lee Ann’s digital recorder, the one for recording anything that fleshed out the story. He felt its little presence in the right-hand front pocket of his pants. Sticking his hand in the pocket: out of the question, of course, but how about just casually sliding a finger over the material like so, maybe feeling that tiny record button? Yes. He pressed down.

  “This isn’t the best place for you,” the chief said.

  “How come?”

  The chief gazed at him, his eyes just two pockets of shadow. “Belle Ville’s not your lucky town,” he said. “That should be clear by now.”

  “I’m at peace with it,” Pirate said, remembering, too late, about saving that line for someone else. Then, at the same instant as that memory coming too late, the automatic was in his ear, the muzzle pushing up inside, hurting him.

  The chief spoke, his voice soft, asked a question as though really interested in the answer. “What did I tell you?”

  “Save that line for someone else.”

  The chief nodded. “I’ve known a lot of ex-cons,” he said. “Comes with the territory. You’ve got a big advantage over just about all of them. Know what that is?”

  “I was innocent?”

  The gun pressed in his ear, harder. Wrong answer—even though it seemed so right. Pirate couldn’t think of another; probably safer not to try any wild guesses.

  “You tell me,” he said. “What’s my advantage?”

  “Did you grow up rich?” the chief said.

  “No.”

  “Any reason to think you’d have been rich by now?”

  There was: What if he’d actually hit the big time in Nashville or L.A.? But Pirate felt the rhythm of the conversation and fell in step.

  “No,” he said.

  “So how come you’re so casual about four hundred grand?” the chief said.

  “That’s the answer,” said Pirate. “I got money and they don’t.”

  “Now you’re talking,” the chief said. A common expression: Pirate had heard it many times before, but always with the word now sounding the most important; the chief’s way, talking came first. “Much better,” he said, the gun pressure easing a bit, but still making him sick in the stomach, like an alien in his body. “Let’s try the writing question again.”

  “The writing question?”

  “What are these writing plans of yours?”

  Pirate was about to run through the songwriting thing again, when he heard a click. This click sounded just like the cocking of a gun, but the chief hadn’t done that. Instead he’d made the sound in his mouth, a crisp, metallic click. How come that was scarier?

  “My story,” Pirate said. “I was planning on writing a book about my story.”

  “Which is?”

  “You know,” said Pirate. Who’d know better? “What happened to me.”

  The gun slid out of his ear. An animal squealed somewhere on the far side of the canal. “Written any books?” the chief said.

  Pirate shook his head. A simple movement but he was free to do it, no gun in his ear. Had to be a good sign, a sign that he was going to live.

  “Then how are you going to go about it?” the chief said.

  “Still working on that.”

  “Some people in your position might get a professional writer involved.”

  “Yeah?”

  “A reporter, for example,” the chief said. “Especially one who’d already been following the case.”

  “Hadn’t thought of that,” Pirate said.

  “Any names come to mind?”

  Did the chief already know about Lee Ann? Was his knowing necessarily a bad thing? Pirate couldn’t figure out the answers to thos
e questions. But sharing information with a cop? How could that ever be right? “Nope,” Pirate said. “I’ll handle it myself.”

  “Starting how?”

  Pirate shifted in his seat. He wanted out, now. The gun was back on the chief’s leg, loosely held. “Interviews, I guess,” Pirate said.

  “You’re going to conduct some interviews?”

  “Yeah.”

  “With who?”

  “Not sure,” Pirate said. “Maybe I’ll make a list.”

  “Maybe,” said the chief. The animal on the far side of the canal squealed again, a frightened sound abruptly cut off. Pirate’s fingers itched for the gold tassel. He took a deep breath to calm himself. The night reeked.

  “If we’re all done here—” Pirate began.

  “Shh,” said the chief, his voice quiet, like he was shushing a baby. A long silence went by. Then something made a splash in the water. “Who’d be on this interview list?” the chief said.

  “Don’t know.”

  “How about me—would I be on it?”

  “Wouldn’t want to inconvenience you,” Pirate said.

  “No inconvenience,” said the chief. “Want to interview me? How’s right now?”

  “I’m not, um, prepared,” Pirate said.

  “Don’t be shy,” the chief said. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

  Bullet in the head, oily water, going down. “Thanks for the offer,” Pirate said. “How about a rain check?”

  “Your call,” said the chief. “But I’m pretty sure you’ve got to be more aggressive to make it in the writing game.”

  “I’ll try,” Pirate said.

  The chief laughed. “This is a funny situation.”

  “Yeah?” Pirate’s shirt was damp now, stuck to the seat back.

  “Here I am telling you how to write your own book,” the chief said. “When all along I’m perfectly aware that you’re off to a flying start.”

  “I am?”

  “Sure,” said the chief. “Take your interview—that’s what it was, I get it now—your interview with my wife.”

  “Interview with your wife?” said Pirate. “I don’t know what you’re—”

  Pirate got surprised by the chief’s quickness for the second time. Things came in the wrong order: first the pain across the left side of his face; then the blow itself from the heavy barrel, the sighting mechanism slicing through his skin; and finally the whoosh of air as the chief whipped the gun at him.

  “Careful, now,” the chief said.

  Pirate’s head filled with sound, like waves crashing on a beach. He touched his face, felt blood and sweat, all sticky together.

  “The interview,” the chief said.

  The tiny weapon: Would he leave it behind again? Never. But just the thought of it gave him strength. “You can call it an interview,” he said. “But she came to me.”

  “And?”

  Pirate shrugged. His head began to clear. “She was sorry about what happened. I told her not to worry about it.”

  The chief gazed at him, just those two black pits, same color as the canal. “How did you put that? The exact words.”

  “Just like I said—don’t worry about it. I forgive you.”

  “You forgave her?”

  “Why not? It was…” What was the phrase she’d used? “It was in good faith.”

  “What was?”

  “The ID,” Pirate said. “Naturally she’s upset about it, kind of wanting to know how it happened and all.”

  “And what did you have to say about that?”

  “Not much,” Pirate said. “I told her mistakes happen.”

  “That’s it? Mistakes happen?”

  “Yup.”

  “What about the tape?”

  “Truth is I don’t know much about that. My lawyers are the experts.”

  “So you didn’t pass on any theories to my wife?”

  “Not a one. Asides from mistakes happen.” Then came a long silence, except for the tiny sound, audible only to someone with Pirate’s acute sense of hearing, of blood dripping off his face and onto his shirt. “What I’m trying to tell you, Chief, is I just want to move on.”

  More silence. The chief holstered the gun. “Sounds like the right move,” he said. “Two things to remember, Mr. DuPree. One—Belle Ville’s not the place for you. Two—the book’s not going to help you with moving on. Message clear?”

  “Yup.”

  The chief turned the key. “Get out,” he said.

  Pirate got out. The cruiser turned, drove around the earthmover. Not quite around: the brake lights came on, and the cruiser backed up, stopping beside Pirate.

  The chief spoke out the driver’s-side window. “And there’s a third thing, so obvious it’s hardly worth saying.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If you see my wife again, talk to her, make contact in any way, I’ll kill you.”

  It took thirty minutes or so for Pirate to walk back to the Ambassador Suites. In his room, he listened to the digital recording device. The sound was first-rate, radio-station quality. He called Lee Ann.

  “Sorry to wake you,” he said. “I’ve been doing some research on the book.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Alone in her house all night: Nell hardly slept. And this house she’d always loved didn’t even seem like hers anymore. She went downstairs, looked out at the lap pool. A huge bullfrog sat at one end, the biggest she’d ever seen. His thick throat pulsed. For some reason the sight of the frog made her ill. She threw up in the kitchen sink.

  Nell called Yeller’s Autobody, got a number for Joe Don, dialed it. Joe Don answered on the third ring, sounding sleepy.

  “Nell Jarreau,” Nell said. “Is Norah there?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Joe Don. “Hang on.” Then came muffled voices, Joe Don’s and Norah’s, before Joe Don returned to the line. “Um, ma’am? She’s in the shower right now?” He was a bad liar.

  “Okay,” Nell said. She waited for what should have followed: Can she call you back? But it did not. “Tell her I’ll call later,” Nell said.

  “Yeah, sure,” said Joe Don. “Good idea.”

  This, her family falling apart, was intolerable. Nell got in her car, drove out to Lake Versailles. The Bastiens’ compound, walled and gated, stood at the eastern end of the lake. The walls were high, overgrown with flowering vines; the gates were closed but swung open just as Nell arrived. Kirk was on his way out, at the wheel of a big SUV. He saw Nell, smiled, waved at the gateman to let her through. She followed the long gravel driveway to the end and parked beside Duke’s Porsche; no sign of Clay’s pickup.

  There were two main houses on the compound—antebellum restorations, identical except that Kirk’s had more columns and an observation tower—several guesthouses, acres of lawn, the green so saturated it didn’t look real, and five or six boats down at the dock, lying still in the calm water. She walked up to Duke’s house, and was raising her hand to knock when her cell phone rang: Lee Ann.

  “Hi,” Lee Ann said. “Got a moment?”

  “Not really.”

  “Maybe we can talk later. I just wanted to thank you for your help with Veronica Rice.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Whatever you told her did the trick,” Lee Ann said. “We had a very productive talk.”

  “You did?” Nell said.

  “Why the surprise?”

  Because Nell didn’t think she’d done the trick at all; Veronica’s face had closed up and she’d started talking about the power structure. Nell was wondering whether to bother going into all that, when the door opened and Duke looked out.

  “Maybe we can talk later,” Nell said.

  “How about lunch?” Lee Ann said. “Foodie and Company, twelve-thirty?”

  “Fine.”

  “I’ve been making progress,” Lee Ann said. “Lots.”

  “What kind of progress?”

  “Tell you at lunch.”

  Nell clicked off
.

  Duke was wearing a dark-blue silk robe decorated with crescent moons. He ran his hand through his hair and said, “Nell?”

  “I’m looking for Clay,” she said.

  “He’s gone to work.”

  Nell’s gaze rose up the facade of the house. Pickup gone, and it was past the usual time for Clay to have left for work, so why should she doubt Duke’s word? Because: her family was falling apart.

  “But you’re welcome to come in,” Duke said. “In fact, please do.” He opened the door wide. Nell went in. “Coffee?” Duke said. “Breakfast?”

  “Coffee, thanks.”

  They went into the kitchen. A uniformed maid was at the stove.

  “Tina,” Duke said. “Coffee for two in the breakfast room, please. And maybe some of those beignets.”

  “Right away,” said Tina.

  “And a little fruit.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Nell gave Tina a smile, but Tina didn’t seem to catch it. The idea of servants just didn’t sit well with Nell, even though some people she knew had them; she saw the fruit bowl on the counter, had to stop herself from carrying it into the breakfast room herself.

  Duke’s breakfast room was at the end of a short corridor off the kitchen. On the way, Nell said, “How’s—” Deleting Vicki at the last instant, substituting “everything?”

  “No complaints,” Duke said.

  They sat at the table, a pink marble table with a vase of orchids in the center, maybe two or three dozen.

  “These are lovely.”

  Duke pointed out the picture window with his chin. Two young women were on the tennis court, hitting the ball hard. “Mindy likes orchids,” he said.

  “Which one’s Mindy?”

  Duke laughed. “The pretty one, of course.”

  Nell tried to decide which was the pretty one. They both looked pretty—blond, tall, great bodies.

  Duke helped her out. “Mindy’s in blue. The other one’s the pro—played for LSU a few years back.”

  Making her—what? Twenty-six or -seven? “How old is Mindy?” Nell said.