Mimosa Grove

by Sharon Sala

  As he continued to drive, he noticed a small cemetery up ahead on his side of the highway. Like all cemeteries in Louisiana, there were tombs and crypts of all sizes and shapes in which to leave the dead. With the land being prone to flooding and at sea level or below in most areas, coffins had a tendency to float up from the ground, never staying where they were planted. To alleviate that problem, centuries ago people had begun leaving their dead in what amounted to small houses above the ground.

  It occurred to him then that it was the perfect place to hide Robert Scanlon. He wasn’t dead yet, but this would be as good a place as any to let it happen. The authorities damn sure wouldn’t think to look for his body in a place like this.

  Confident, for once, that he was doing the right thing, he drove through the open gates of the cemetery and took one of the small, narrow roads toward the back fence. He drove slowly, as if looking for a loved one’s final resting place, when in fact he was constantly looking into his rearview mirror for the moment when he could no longer be seen by traffic on the highway.

  A large clump of willows grew on the northwest corner of an area near the fence, right beside two matching crypts with a large concrete angel standing between them its arms outspread. Trigger tapped the brakes, glanced in the mirror and smiled. He couldn’t see the highway, which meant that no one could see him.

  He stopped, then killed the engine and got out. A quick reconnoiter of the crypts revealed that both doors had been sealed, but a tire iron from the trunk of the car proved just the right tool for prying.

  The ground was hard and dry, the grass thin and wispy, due to the shade of the trees and obvious lack of rain. It seemed impossible to believe that anything buried beneath ground this hard would come up like a bad meal, but he knew for a fact that it did. With one quick glance around to make sure he was still unobserved, he headed for the crypts.

  A half hour later, with blisters on his palms and skinned knuckles on both hands, he’d managed to get the door open and was dragging Scanlon’s limp body inside.

  The air inside the old crypt had been stale and all but nonexistent until the door had opened. Now the heat of the day and the constant buzz of cicadas and other insects intruded upon the inner sanctum of George Henry Gooden’s final resting place.

  Trigger dumped Scanlon and his personal belongings against the concrete pedestal upon which George Henry’s coffin had been laid to rest and moved toward the door without looking back. Even though he didn’t believe in ghosts, the place gave him the creeps.

  He stepped outside, then tried to pull the door shut. As he did, dust shifted on the floor, lightly coating Robert Scanlon’s shoes and the legs of his pants. When the movement of the door suddenly stalled, it felt as if an unseen hand had caused it to stop. Trigger’s heart skipped a beat. Then he saw the small rock that had gotten wedged beneath the door and laughed nervously at himself, kicked it aside and finished his task.

  The door swung shut with a solid thump, and as it did, something clicked. Trigger tested the door by giving it a strong push, and when it didn’t budge, he began to grin.

  He’d done it. By God, he’d done it. He looked around again, just to make sure he was still undetected, then tossed his tools back into the SUV. When he slid into the driver’s seat, he was reminded that his job wasn’t quite finished. There was blood on the seat that had to be removed. Luckily, the upholstery was leather, so in lieu of water, he used a bottle of his after-shave and one of his undershirts to clean it off. After tossing the undershirt across the fence into the neighboring pasture, he got into the car. The scent of after-shave was everywhere, sickening in its intensity, and he was forced to drive for some distance with the windows down.

  By the time he got to Bayou Jean, it was nearing twilight. He stopped for gas and something cold to drink, and began a conversation with one of the locals, intent on finding the location of Mimosa Grove. The sooner he finished what he’d come to do, the sooner his life was going to be back on track.

  He smiled at a couple of kids who were riding by on their bicycles, then began washing his windshield with the squeegee furnished by the station. As he was moving to the passenger side, a young woman in a vintage Mustang pulled up to the pumps and got out.

  “Nice car,” Trigger said.

  She tugged at the hem of her T-shirt and flashed him a grin.

  “It belonged to my daddy when he was young. He gave it to me for my seventeenth birthday.”

  “What a great dad,” Trigger said. “You’re a very lucky lady.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” she said, and began pumping gas in her own vehicle. “You done with that?” she asked, pointing to the dripping squeegee dangling from Trigger’s fingers.

  “Oh! Yeah. Forgot I had it,” he said, then handed it to her and smiled, as if it was a joke on him. “I’ve been driving so long I’m punchy,” he said. “Don’t suppose there are any bed-and-breakfast places around here? I was checking online before I left California. I think I remember a place called Mimosa Grove in this area. Do you know it?”

  She laughed out loud. “Mister, everyone around here knows that place, and trust me, it’s not any bed-and-breakfast.”

  “Are you sure? I could have sworn—”

  “Yeah, but you don’t have to take my word for it. Go see for yourself. Take the highway south out of town five miles. You can’t miss it. You’ll know you’re there when you start seeing all those creepy mimosa trees. The old house is just up the drive, but you’re not gonna find a place to stay there.”

  “Hmm, I was certain that was the name, but I could be wrong.”

  “You’re wrong, all right,” she said. “The only thing moving around there are ghosts and voodoo.”

  He frowned. “I don’t believe in that stuff.”

  She winked. “If you go out there, you will,” she promised, then returned the nozzle to the pump, tossed the squeegee into the bucket of dirty water and sauntered into the station to pay for her gas.

  Trigger was still watching as she drove off without looking back, but for once, he didn’t care that he hadn’t scored. He’d gotten the information he needed. He paid for his gas, then headed out of town. His pulse accelerated as he thought of what was to come. Before the night was over, he would be in the clear.

  ***

  Laurel sat curled up in an old overstuffed chair near the front window, staring blindly out onto the grounds. Her hair was in tangles where she’d run her hands through it over and over, and her white T-shirt and seersucker shorts were crumpled from having slept in them.

  She’d called her father’s office and spoken directly to Clausing, his boss. Clausing’s reaction had been about what she’d expected. He’d chided her for claiming “psychic” abilities had led her to believe her father was in danger. Then she’d tossed out the name DeLane, and he’d stopped laughing. Accusing a four-star general of kidnapping and treason was crazy, but nothing to ignore. He’d said he would check it out. Now she had no recourse but to wait.

  Light was fading, sending long blue shadows creeping toward the fishpond near the road. Parrots and cockatoos were coming home to roost. A pair of bam swallows kept flying through the air in long, graceful swoops, snagging mosquitoes in flight as they skimmed close to the ground.

  Outwardly, it was an idyllic setting, but Laurel knew better. She’d learned the hard way that there was no such thing as peace on earth. Not when the evil men practiced spilled over onto the innocent. Her father was either dead or dying. She could feel it, but she didn’t know where he was. It wasn’t fair. All the times she’d been able to help others, and the one time she needed it to help herself, her powers wouldn’t work. She needed a connection—something of her father’s or some place he’d recently been. She kept going over and over her last conversation with him, hearing him say that he’d had car trouble, knowing when he’d told her that someone who was not a stranger had given him a ride, and certain that whoever it was, was going to do him harm. He’d told her DeLane’s name, but h
e hadn’t told her where he was, and she didn’t know where to start looking.

  Then Justin walked in, carrying a cup.

  “Tula’s come and gone, but she left your tea. Said for you to drink it slow.”

  He handed her the cup, and she took it without speaking, then had a first sip. It wasn’t as bad as she’d expected, so she continued to drink until it was all gone.

  As soon as she set the cup aside, she felt Justin’s hand on the back of her head. She looked up, saw the concern on his face and dissolved into tears as he held her in his arms.

  “He’s dying,” she said. “I can feel it, but I don’t know where he is.”

  “What can I do? Tell me and I’ll make it happen,” he said.

  Her arms were around his neck, her fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt as if he was all that was keeping her upright. Her voice was shaking, and she felt sick to her stomach.

  “Oh, Justin… God… just tell me this is all a bad dream.”

  He hurt for her in so many ways and would have done anything to keep her from harm. But this was something completely out of his experience.

  “Honey… I would tell you anything if it would make this better, but I don’t know what to say.”

  “I know, I know,” she muttered, then hid her face in the curve of his neck. “I’m losing control, and that can’t happen.”

  She pulled herself out of his arms, then swiped angrily at the tears on her face.

  “Damn this helplessness!” she shouted, and stormed out onto the veranda.

  The suddenness of her arrival sent a pair of roosting peacocks into a frenzy. Their squawks and shrieks were echoes of the way she felt inside, but if she started screaming, she might never stop. She strode down the steps and started walking with no destination in mind, unaware that Justin was only a step behind.

  He caught her before she got far, then spun her around and into his arms. His breath was warm on her face, his grip firm as he held her close.

  “Stop it,” he said.

  She struggled to get free.

  “Damn it, Laurel. Stop it! Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

  “Crazy! I’m going crazy!” she yelled. “Just like my mother!” Then she went limp in his arms. The anger was gone as suddenly as it had come, leaving her weak. She looked up at Justin, ashamed that he’d seen her like this. “Just like my mother,” she echoed softly, and let him hold her as night crept onto the land, swallowing the shadows and hiding everything, both good and bad, within the darkness.

  Finally Justin picked her up in his arms. Her head lolled against his shoulder, but she didn’t fight him. She couldn’t feel her father within her anymore. At that point, hope died.

  Justin carried her inside as lights from the hunters’ lanterns danced intermittently through the trees. They were looking for the trespassing panther she’d heard earlier in the day. Somehow, it didn’t seem right that man was willing to hunt a four-legged enemy quicker than a two-legged one.

  ***

  Attorney General Andrew Clausing was sick to his stomach but with no time to throw up. Interrogating a four-star general in his own home had been daunting, but he was up to the job. He hadn’t, however, expected to see someone of John Franklin DeLane’s integrity crumple like yesterday’s newspaper. But after a search of the house that had revealed bank accounts and trips out of the country coinciding with large deposits into a bank account in the Cayman Islands, it hadn’t been the general who’d come up guilty. It had been the son.

  DeLane’s culpability had been by blood alone, and he had been willing to take the blame for his son’s treason until his wife had slapped him square in the face and told him that it was high time their son took the blame for the messes he continued to make. Listening to her recount all the times that they’d paid off injured parties for their son’s misdeeds had made Clausing thankful he’d never taken the time to become a parent.

  He left without any answers as to where Trigger DeLane was, but certain that the son had just ruined his father’s career, then he amended the thought. DeLane had ruined his own career by pandering to a weak and spoiled son. It was a shame, but truth often hurt.

  He drove away, leaving the authorities in charge of gathering evidence to reopen the case. McNamara might be dead, but Gerald Dupont DeLane, nicknamed Trigger for the quick temper he’d had as a child, was about to get a lifelong wish fulfilled in a way he’d never imagined. He’d wanted to be famous, not infamous—but as he would learn, beggars can’t be choosers. Before this mess was cleaned up, the name DeLane would be on everyone’s lips. Now Clausing needed to call a woman about an apology and hope it wasn’t too late to help her find her father, after all.

  He called his office.

  “Elaine, do we still have a number to reach Laurel Scanlon?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Give it to me,” he said, then jotted down the number as she read it off. “Okay, thanks. I’m on my way back to the office. Have Gabe Clancy meet me there. I think we’ve got a kidnapping on our hands, and I want the best agent the FBI has to offer.”

  “Yes, sir. Anything else?”

  He sighed. “Have you ever eaten crow?”

  “Sir?”

  “Nothing,” he muttered. “Just delaying the inevitable.”

  He hung up, started the car so that the air-conditioning would be running, then made the call.

  ***

  Supper had been a quiet affair. Justin had coaxed Laurel to eat, succeeding only because he’d reminded her how hard Marie had worked all day to fix the meal. And strangely enough, it had tasted good. Laurel thought that maybe it had something to do with the company at the table. Marie had slipped into the role of caretaker for Laurel as easily as she’d done it all those years for her grandmother, and Justin was more than the man who warmed her bed. He loved her. She knew, because she felt it in his touch, even heard it in his voice. And because of them, she took an odd sort of comfort from knowing that, if they couldn’t find her father, she was not going to be alone in the world.

  Justin and Laurel were clearing the table while Marie made coffee to go with dessert when, once again, the telephone rang.

  The trio froze, a study in solemn patience, waiting to see who was brave enough to face what could only be bad news.

  Justin was the first to move, but it was Laurel who stayed him with a touch of her hand.

  “I’ll get it,” she said. “You help Marie.”

  “Honey, let me—”

  “I’ve let you do enough already,” she said. “I’ve got to face my own troubles. You’re here. It’s enough.”

  He relented but kept a wary eye on her as she moved toward the phone.

  It was on the third ring when Laurel picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  ***

  Robert regained consciousness in darkness—or at least he thought he’d come to. There was always the possibility that he had died and gone to hell, but there was enough pain in trying to think and breathe at the same time to make him think he was still among the living. He tried to move, but when he did, pain shot through his head so fast that lights went off behind his eyelids. He groaned, and the sound had an odd sort of echo. He tried to roll over but found himself wedged up against what felt like a concrete wall. So he rolled the other way and took solace in the movement, small though it might be.

  Slowly, slowly, he felt his head, groaning again when he felt the knot in his hair. His fingers came away wet and sticky, and when he held them to his nose, he smelled the coppery scent of fresh blood.

  He tried to think what the hell had happened and remembered talking to Laurel, hearing her frantic warning not to get in the car and ignoring it as nothing than more psychic garbage until she’d said McNamara’s name. Until he’d heard her shouting that the man who’d picked him up was connected to McNamara. He remembered looking out the windshield and locking gazes with DeLane, seeing the panic come over the man’s face and knowing she was right, an
d that he’d left it too late to get away.

  He knew that Trigger DeLane had been in D.C. looking for Laurel. And when he himself left for Louisiana, Trigger must have followed, using him to get to her. Robert groaned. If Laurel fell into their hands, then he was screwed. He would make a deal with the devil himself to keep his daughter safe, and McNamara knew it. He tried to sit up, but the world started to spin. He needed to get out, to warn Laurel that her life was in danger, but he was too hurt to move. He fell back onto the floor, trying to think, but the pain was too great, and he felt himself going under.

  Time passed. He didn’t know how long he’d been there, but when he came to again, it was still dark and he still hurt. Only something was different. It took him a few moments to figure out what it was, and when he did, his heartbeat skipped, then picked up a new rhythm. The air felt different—as if it had a bad taste. He was running out of oxygen.

  A film of sweat broke out on his skin as he rolled over on his belly and began to crawl, hoping he could find a way out of whatever hellhole DeLane had put him in.

  Within moments, he’d crawled into a wall. He felt one of his shoes fall off, but he didn’t stop. Determined not to quit, he moved to his right and continued to crawl, using his hands and elbows for leverage as he tried to pull himself up to his knees. But as soon as his belly left the floor, he passed out.

  Dirt was in his mouth when he came to again. Remembering what had happened the last time he’d tried to get up, he settled for the belly crawl on the off chance that if it happened again, he wouldn’t have far to fall. He kept thinking about Laurel. McNamara had warned him, but Robert had been so determined to play out the hand his own way that he’d put Laurel in harm’s way.