by Sharon Sala
“Let’s just hope there’s not a next time,” Marie said, then tucked a straggling lock of hair into the knot at the back of her neck before moving to the sink.
Laurel made quick work of the flowers, then carried them up to the room where her father would stay. Once she’d finished that task and put out clean sheets and towels, she headed to her room to pick out something to wear. But Chantelle’s diary beckoned instead, so she kicked off her shoes and crawled up into the middle of her bed. Moments later, she forgot about everything but the life and times of a woman long since past.
March 1, 1814
I am with child. My husband is elated. I would be, too, but I am so ill. Winter was short and mild compared to the winters in Paris. Already the heat is beginning, and the mosquitoes, the horrible flying bugs that bite the flesh, have arrived. Where do they go in the winter? I wonder why they don’t die. I fear I will die from this sickness. Will I have a son or a daughter? I do not know, and for now, I do not care.
Laurel shifted restlessly on the bed, then scooted back against the headboard and pulled her knees up, using them, instead of her lap, as a place to rest the book. She turned the fragile pages with care as she read, already drawn into the drama of Chantelle LeDeux’s life. It wasn’t until she reached the month of October that she realized how fragile Chantelle’s existence really was.
October 14, 1814
Last night I became a mother. My husband named our son Jean Luc. He seems to be a pleasant baby and is nursing well, but the birth was not easy. The midwife would not attend me. She feared I would put a curse on her, should the birth not go well. Were it not for Joshua, our houseman, and his wife, who stayed with me during the birth, I don’t know what might have happened.
I love my child with all my heart and am happy I am now a mother, but I wish I had never left my dear parents. I do not know how to live amid such distrust and fear.
Oh, that I had never been born with this curse.
Laurel held the small book to her heart and closed her eyes, well aware of the anguish that Chantelle had been suffering. In an odd sort of way, it gave Laurel comfort to know that she wasn’t the only one who’d had to endure ridicule and judgment because she saw things other people could not.
As she turned to the next page, it occurred to her that Chantelle had yet to make one believably positive mention of her husband or of her affection for him. It was then that she remembered that during this time in history, most marriages were arranged. Her heart hurt for the young French girl and her loneliness in the wilds of a new world. It began to make sense why a wife and a mother such as this might even consider running away.
She looked down at the next page, squinting to read the faded words, and turned on the table lamp beside her bed before continuing. Many pages later, another entry caught her attention.
December 25, 1815
Jean Luc is walking and into everything. I love his curiosity. I think he might be a scholar. My husband would not be happy about this. He wants a son to carry on the family business of cotton. When I mentioned the possibility that raising cotton might one day fall out of favor as a lucrative occupation, he shouted at me and told me that women did not have a mind for business, and that I should keep my opinions to myself.
So I shall.
We had a festive holiday. Neighbors came to share in our bounty. Cook roasted a great haunch of venison. I tried to show her how to make a flaming pudding like we have back home in Paris, but she did not welcome my presence in her kitchen, and the pudding was not a success. I do few things here in this new world with success, but I am a good mother, and obviously I breed well.
Again, I am with child.
Weary from trying to decipher the tiny, spiderlike writing, Laurel laid the diary aside, then rolled over on the bed and closed her eyes.
Just for a few minutes.
Just to rest her eyes.
Instead, she fell asleep.
And she dreamed.
***
Darkness was all around her, but fear kept her moving. Something sounded in the woods behind her, and she started to run, enduring the slap of limbs on her face as she moved blindly through the night. She knew she was in the grove, because the scent of mimosa blooms and rotting earth mingled with the coppery smell of fresh blood. Vines along the forest floor caught and tugged at her ankles before breaking as she struggled to get free. Her lungs were burning. It was getting harder and harder to breathe. She needed to stop. She needed to rest. But there was someone behind her—moving faster than she—coming closer and closer. Someone who’d already brought blood. Someone who wanted her dead.
The light in Laurel’s room was shifting from the floor to the wall. The sun was beginning to move closer to the western horizon, but she didn’t know. In her sleep, it was already night, and she was about to die.
She moaned, then rolled over on her back. As she did, she flung her arms outward.
Something hit her in the back of the head, then in the middle of her back, and then she was falling—off the riverbank and into the water below. She thought she screamed but couldn’t be sure, although it was the last sound she heard as she was suddenly submerged.
Down, down, down, she fell… below the swift-moving surface. Water was rushing up her nose and into her eyes. Breath was gone.
She died—then found herself floating between heaven and earth, pulled toward a bright and pulsing light, but, for some reason, equally locked into the gravitational pull of an earthbound soul.
She struggled to go forward, aching to know the solace she could sense in the light, but something kept holding her back.
“Help me. Help me,” she begged, reaching upward toward heaven, and still the weight around her ankles wouldn’t let go.
Then, as suddenly as it had come, the light was gone. The weight, too, was gone from around her ankles, but it was too late. She was trapped in the dark between heaven and earth, with nowhere to go but mad.
Laurel woke up, gasping for air, her arms and legs flailing. Still locked into the dream, she believed she was beneath the water and trying to swim up. She groaned in disbelief as reality dawned, then crawled out of bed and staggered to the bathroom. Splashing cool water on her face took away most of the horror, and by the time she got back to her bed, it was fading fast.
She dropped onto the side of the mattress and then picked up the diary. Her hands were shaking as she gently let it shut. Reading about Chantelle’s life was sad, but not nearly as sad as the truth about her death. There might be a mystery as to what happened to her, but there was no mystery as to where she was now and why she kept begging for help. And this she knew, because Laurel had not been the woman in the dream. That fugitive had been Chantelle. Now she was caught between heaven and hell, and for whatever reason, she needed Laurel’s help to move on.
“But how?” Laurel muttered, and held the diary close to her chest. “Help me, Chantelle… show me.”
She sat, waiting for a miracle—waiting for what was left of a young woman’s soul to conjure up enough energy to make the connection. But nothing happened, and finally she set the diary aside and began to undress. She needed to shower and change before her father’s arrival, and despite Marie’s insistence to the contrary, she was going to help with dinner, as well.
***
Robert Scanlon picked up his luggage and headed for the rent-a-car desk to pick up his vehicle. Minutes later, he was on his way out to the lot. The sun was bright. The air was hot. Soon he shed his suit coat and donned a pair of sunglasses. When he found his car, he tossed everything into the trunk and quickly started the engine, cranking the air conditioner up to high. Even with the vents all aimed in his direction, the air inside the car was still miserable.
A woman ran between his car and the next, then straight toward an approaching man. He watched the man’s face light up, saw him drop his suitcase as he caught her on the run and swung her up in his arms. A sharp pain hit Robert square in the heart, and he had to look away. A
ngry that he’d been emotionally moved by two complete strangers, he jammed the car into Reverse and quickly drove away. It had been years since he’d let himself think of the loneliness of his existence, but with Laurel’s absence and not having the job to compensate, it was no longer possible to ignore.
The rental clerk had given him instructions on how to get from the airport to the highway he needed, but the traffic was worse than he’d expected, and the route she’d mentioned had a detour due to some highway reconstruction. It took him a good forty-five minutes before he was clear of the city.
Although he had a general idea of how to get from Houma to Bayou Jean, he wasn’t taking any chances on getting lost later and had requested a car with an in-vehicle navigation system to make his trip as quick as possible. There were things that needed to be said to his daughter, and the sooner it was done, the better he was going to feel.
He drove south out of Houma with Laurel on his mind. He hated the way they’d parted, and hated even more that he’d been the cause. It wasn’t entirely her fault that she’d let herself buy into the idea that she was psychic. Her mother’s influence had started it, and his busy lifestyle had let it fester. Now it was too late to change her, but not too late to change their relationship. He didn’t believe for a moment there was such a thing as people who could see into the future as well as the past, but he wanted to believe in her. She was a good woman with a gentle heart, and she was his daughter. That was going to have to be enough.
As he drove, the air inside his car cooled off and his temper with it. He was so intent on following the proper route that he never noticed the gray SUV a short distance behind him.
***
Trigger had picked up a rental, as well, but had cursed his way through the city while trying to keep up with Scanlon. He wanted to talk to McNamara. He’d told Trigger he would call, but he hadn’t, and Trigger could hardly call him. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to the fact that he even knew the man beyond having attended some of the same parties over the years. All he had to go on was the last thing McNamara had told him to do, which was to snatch Scanlon’s daughter, and come hell or high water, that was what he was going to do. He felt smug about his plan, letting Scanlon take the lead, show him where she was, and then, when Daddy dear was gone, Laurel Scanlon would be his.
But Robert Scanlon’s rental car was not in on Trigger’s plans. Thirty-five minutes later, every caution light on the dashboard came on at once, followed by a loud dinging sound not unlike that of a medium-size bell. At first Robert was too startled to be concerned, but concern quickly followed, as he barely managed to steer the car off onto the shoulder of the highway before it died.
Neither the fancy navigational system nor the fine Corinthian leather seats made a world’s bit of difference to the fact that the engine beneath the hood was a dud. Frustrated beyond belief and cursing motors in general, he made a quick call to the rental agency, which promised a tow truck would soon be on the way.
“Fine,” Robert said, “but I also need another car. I have a meeting tonight that I can’t miss.”
“I’m so sorry, sir,” the agent said. “We don’t have any more vehicles available until tomorrow morning.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Robert said. “No cars… of any kind?”
“No, sir. There’s a quilting convention in town, and a lot of the women rented vehicles to go sightseeing.”
“Oh, great. Just great. I don’t suppose any of your competitors have anything, either?”
“I doubt it, but I’d be happy to give you their numbers.”
“Yes, thank you. I’d appreciate it.”
The clerk rattled off the other numbers, then disconnected, with a reminder that the tow truck would be arriving soon. Meanwhile, Robert was left sitting in the heat at the side of the road.
He got out and kicked at a rock on the side of the road, then looked up and down the highway, as if expecting a miracle to occur. And when he saw the turn signal of a late-model, silver-gray SUV suddenly blinking as the driver began steering the car off the highway and onto the shoulder of the road behind him, he realized he’d gotten his miracle.
But then he recognized the driver, and his suspicious nature kicked in. The coincidence of seeing Trigger DeLane in the airport, then being on the same flight, and now about to be rescued by the man, seemed too good to be true. But it was too hot and he was too pissed off to miss the opportunity.
He dropped his cell phone in his pocket and then stepped aside as Trigger DeLane pulled up and waved.
***
When Trigger, who had dropped back to follow several minutes behind, saw Scanlon’s car pulled off the highway, he panicked. What the hell was he going to do now? He could hardly follow a man who was going nowhere. Then reality hit, and he laughed at himself. He was going to do the proper thing one acquaintance would do for another. He was going to stop and offer his assistance. How priceless was this going to be? He was looking for Laurel Scanlon, and without skulking about or subterfuge of any kind, she’d just been delivered.
He put the SUV in Park, put on what he hoped was a surprised expression and got out of the car.
“Mr. Scanlon?” Then he shook his head in pretend disbelief. “It is you! When I saw you get out of the car, I couldn’t believe it. What are the odds of running into each other like this twice in one day?”
Robert had already asked himself the same thing, but it was too damned hot to delve too deeply into coincidence.
“Whatever they are, I’m grateful,” Robert said. “Where are you headed?”
Trigger shook his head. “I was heading south to the Atchafalaya Bay to do some fishing.”
“I would appreciate a lift to the next town. I need to try to rent another car.”
“Certainly,” Trigger said. “Let me help you get your things. Are they in the back?”
“Yes,” Robert said, and popped the trunk.
Within minutes his luggage had been transferred, and he’d called the rental company to let them know what he’d done.
Robert slid into the passenger seat with a sigh of relief and aimed an air conditioner vent directly in his face.
“Hot one, isn’t it?” Trigger said as he slid behind the wheel.
“This place is as close to hell as anything on earth,” Robert muttered, then buckled his seat belt and managed a smile. “Of course, I’m slightly prejudiced in that regard.”
Trigger arched an eyebrow as he pulled back onto the highway.
“You’ve been in Louisiana before?”
Robert hesitated, then sighed. “My wife was born and raised here.”
“Really?” Trigger said, then eyed Robert anew. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had the pleasure.”
“She’s dead,” Robert said shortly, then turned to look out the side window.
Trigger was dense in some respects, but he knew when a faux pas had been made, and obviously, mentioning Scanlon’s marital state had been one. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “So, where were you headed?”
“A place called Mimosa Grove. It’s outside a small town called Bayou Jean.”
“Then that’s where we’re headed,” Trigger said.
Robert looked surprised.
“Oh, no. I couldn’t ask you to go that far out of your way.”
Trigger smiled.
“On the contrary, Mr. Scanlon. It will be my pleasure.”
“I don’t suppose you have anything to drink?” Robert asked.
Trigger smiled. “Check in my duffel bag. I believe there’s an unopened bottle of water.”
“Great,” Robert said, and turned around, unzipped the bag in the seat behind them and felt inside for the bottle. Instead, he felt the outline of a pistol wrapped up in some clothes, and froze.
“Find it?” Trigger asked.
“What? Oh… yes, here it is,” Robert said, as he jerked away from the gun and quickly retrieved the water.
15
Robert stare
d out the window into the side-view mirror outside the car, watching the miles disappearing behind them and wondering why the hell Trigger DeLane was carrying a gun. Of course, lots of people did carry them, but after the restrictions on flying had tightened so drastically, there was no way he could have boarded that plane with a gun on his person or in his luggage. That meant he must have purchased it after getting to Houma. And since there was a waiting period for buying handguns, the only way Trigger had come by that gun was illegally. And what the hell did he need a gun for, anyway, just to go fishing?
He glanced briefly at the man again, considering asking him outright about the gun, then stopped, telling himself that he was probably being too suspicious. The man’s father was a four-star general, for God’s sake. There was no telling what Trigger did for a living. He could be some kind of undercover agent and the world would never know. If he was, he wouldn’t have needed to buy a gun. He could have brought it with him and passed through security without question.
Convinced that he’d answered his own questions about DeLane, he relaxed and began to enjoy the scenery. But almost an hour had passed before Robert felt relaxed enough to start a conversation.
“You fish down here often?” he asked.
Trigger looked truly surprised. “I’m sorry?”
Robert frowned. “I thought you said you were going fishing. Did I misunderstand?”
Trigger gave himself a mental cursing, then laughed.
“Sorry. I was lost in thought when you spoke. No, I haven’t been this way in several years, but I have a friend who lives on the coast. He invited. I accepted. That’s me. Always acting on impulse.”
“I see,” Robert said, but he didn’t really. He’d been a prosecutor long enough to recognize lies when he heard them.
“How about you? Do you enjoy deep-sea fishing?” Trigger asked.
“Can’t say as how I’ve ever been,” Robert said. “Not much on fishing.”
“Oh, best thing in the world to relax and clear your head.”
