by Sharon Sala
After the way he’d dismissed her before, she was in no mood to talk to him again. She was frowning as she took the phone.
“Yes?”
Clausing sighed. The distance in her voice was unmistakable.
“Miss Scanlon, I just called to apologize and to tell you that your father was right. We have issued a federal arrest warrant for Gerald Dupont DeLane, aka Trigger DeLane, for charges of treason against the United States of America, as well as conspiracy to commit treason.”
“You can add kidnapping and attempted murder to that,” she said shortly. “And if my father does not survive until the arrival of the St. Lorraine authorities at the burial vault where DeLane left him, then you can amend that to murder.”
Clausing sat down.
“What?”
“You heard me,” Laurel said. “I told you he’d been kidnapped. I told you he was in danger.”
“Where—”
“If you have any further questions regarding what happened to my father, contact the parish police here in Bayou Jean. The man in charge is Harper Fonteneau. Or you can call the parish police in St. Lorraine, Louisiana. They’re in the act of recovering my father… or what’s left of him.”
“But how—”
“We have nothing to say to each other,” Laurel said, and handed Justin the phone.
“She might be through with you, but I’m not,” Justin said. “One of the last things Robert Scanlon said was that Laurel was in danger. So I’m giving you fair warning. If anything happens to her because of your reluctance to react or any kind of negligence on behalf of the federal government, I will drag you and everyone connected with you through the dirt in front of every media outlet in the Northern Hemisphere. Do I make myself clear?”
Clausing’s face paled as his fingers tightened around the phone. “Yes.”
“Do you know where Mimosa Grove is located?”
“No, but I can—”
“Five miles south of Bayou Jean, Louisiana. Make yourself known upon your arrival or you’re liable to be shot on sight for trespassing.”
The phone went dead in Clausing’s ear. He stared at the receiver, then slowly laid it back on the cradle and took a deep breath. The clock on the wall opposite his desk began to strike the hour. He looked up in disbelief. It was almost nine. He looked out the window. It was dark.
“Eileen?”
His secretary appeared in the doorway.
“Why are you still here?” he mumbled.
“Because you are, sir. Is there anything you need?”
“Yes. Get Gabe Clancy on the phone. I don’t care where he is or what he’s doing. We need to talk.”
***
Robert Scanlon came to just long enough to realize something was crawling on his face. He swiped it away and then shuddered, trying not to think what it might have been. His lungs felt heavy, as if someone was sitting on his chest.
He shifted slightly, then rolled over, feeling the roughness of the floor against his bare belly as he pressed his nose toward the crack in the wall, then took a small breath. Before, he’d taken the act of breathing for granted, but never again. He’d never realized that air could be tasted as well as smelled, but he knew it now. He lay without moving, savoring the faint scent of night that had come to the land, and thought about his life. He’d always heard that when a man was near death, his life would pass before his eyes, but since his death was taking longer than usual, he had more time than one might expect to contemplate his failures.
At the thought, he wondered what a psychiatrist would make of the fact that the first thing to come to his mind had been his failures, rather than his successes. He supposed it might be construed as not having enough successes to contemplate. Lord only knew how many mistakes he had made. His marriage had been a mistake. Then he edited the thought. It hadn’t been the marriage so much as the way they’d behaved. That had been the mistake, and both he and Phoebe were to blame. Looking back over her behavior, he knew that if it had happened now instead of almost thirty years ago, her condition could have been treated. Even after she’d started blaming her psychic abilities on her inability to cope, he’d gone along with the notion because it seemed to give her some sense of relief. But it wasn’t true, and to his shame, he’d never told any of the family, not even Laurel, the truth. Phoebe hadn’t killed herself because she couldn’t bear the trauma of what she claimed she “saw” during psychic episodes. She was manic-depressive and had killed herself during one of her downswings. If he didn’t die in this mess, he was going to tell Laurel the truth. He owed that much to her, and more.
He lay for a few minutes with his nose to the crack, breathing and thinking how loud true quiet really was. He could hear his heartbeat, the sound of his breath. Even the sound of time ticking away seemed real, although he knew that was a crazy claim to make.
He wondered if the lack of oxygen was making his brain turn to mush, then supposed it was possible. If it was true, unless someone rescued him soon, it wouldn’t matter. If heaven was all it was cracked up to be, then God wouldn’t care what his earthly condition had been. It was Robert’s immortal soul that would be His concern.
Something was digging into his right leg near the knee. He shifted his position enough to alleviate the pain, then realized it hadn’t helped. At that point, he couldn’t really determine where the pain began. All he knew was that he hurt all over. And that he was sorry he was going to die before he got a chance to tell Laurel he loved her.
Tears came suddenly, followed by harsh, choking sobs. He wanted to curl up and weep for all the wasted years, but if he moved, he would not be able to breathe. So he cried, anyway, with his face against the wall and his fingers curled into fists, and thought of his mother and father, who’d been gone for years, and a childhood friend who died from polio when he was seven.
***
Two cars from the St. Lorraine police department were running lights and sirens as they sped out of town. The fire-rescue unit was behind them, as was the police chief in his private car. It was the largest display of local authority that had been seen since an eighteen-wheeler hauling for the Townsend pig farm had picked up a load of weanlings, then gone off the Fourche Maline bridge, dumping upwards of seven hundred just-weaned pigs into the river. It was the first time some had ever seen pigs swim, while others claimed little pigs were climbing up on shore for days all along the river. And since there were a good number of wild pig herds in the area, most decided there was more truth to the story than fiction.
But this time the deputies in the lead were less certain of the emergency. They had orders to drive out to the cemetery and pop the door on Old Man Gooden’s crypt. It seemed like the worst possible thing to do to a man’s final resting place, but orders were orders, and neither wanted to admit to the other that it gave them the creeps.
Marty grabbed hold of his seat belt and braced himself against the dash as Harvey drove headlong toward what felt like imminent disaster.
“Dang it all, Harvey, what is it we’re doing out here again?”
Harvey took the curve in the road too high and felt the tires on the passenger side of the patrol car sliding off the pavement. He corrected the skid and accelerated, relishing the feel of speed and the sound of the siren blasting in his ears.
On the other hand, Marty was not a man who enjoyed confrontation and, from time to time, thought about following in his daddy’s footsteps and joining the family funeral business. The only thing that kept him from pursuing it was the fact that he hated embalming dead people worse than he hated confrontation with the living.
“Somebody’s supposed to have stashed a kidnap victim in Old Man Gooden’s crypt. We’re goin’ to see if he’s really in there.”
“And if he’s not, who’s gonna tell Old Man Gooden we made a mistake?”
Harvey snorted. “You’re scared, aren’t you. Scared you’ll find a ghost in there.”
“No, I’m not scared. I just don’t like bothering a man’s final
resting place, that’s all.”
“Look at it like this,” Harvey said. “If the victim is in there, he’ll be real glad we bothered.”
“I guess,” Marty said, and then pointed. “Slow down, Harvey. Up yonder is the gate.”
Harvey tapped the brakes, took the turn off the highway too fast, hit the old wire gate that was put up every night at sunset and drove clean over it.
“You drove over the gate!” Marty yelled.
“So? It’s not like anyone in here is gonna suddenly jump up and run out,” Harvey said, and headed toward the back of the cemetery.
He knew where George Gooden was buried because he’d been a pallbearer at the man’s funeral, but everything looked different in the dark.
“Look for two crypts with a big angel in between them,” he told Marty.
Marty leaned forward, squinting as they flew past one marker after the next without seeing anything familiar. “You need to slow down some,” he said.
“There they are!” Harvey shouted, and turned abruptly, then came to a halt, parking so that the headlights shone directly onto the door of George Gooden’s final home.
“Get the tools out of the trunk,” Harvey ordered, ignoring the still-blasting siren as he started toward the crypt.
Marty grabbed a sledgehammer in one hand and a tire iron in the other, opting to leave the pickax behind unless they ran into trouble.
Harvey was already at the crypt and pushing on the door when Marty thrust the tire iron in his hand.
“Here! See if you can wedge it into the crack, then I’ll drive it home with the hammer.”
Harvey hesitated, then shoved the tire iron in Marty’s hand and took away the hammer.
“Hell no. I’m not holding anything for you to hammer until you get your glasses back from Doc Bartlett.”
“I can see fine,” Marty argued.
“Good. Then you can watch me while I do the hammering.”
Marty thrust the tire iron into the crack beside the decorative knob, then turned his head as Harvey drew the hammer back. The blow from the sledgehammer was hard enough to make his arms tingle, but he managed to hold on. Two more blows and the door gave way, almost as if someone—or something—had decided to let them in.
“Christ,” Marty muttered, and took a sudden step back.
But Harvey had seen something that Marty could not. The headlights from the cruiser were aimed a little too far to the right to give him a perfect view, but there was still enough light to see the casket on the pedestal—and the body lying next to the wall.
“Tell the chief that he’s in here,” Harvey said. “And get the ambulance up here fast.”
He grabbed his flashlight from his belt and strode through the door as Marty turned on his heel and ran.
Harvey barely gave George Gooden a glance as he hurried past, then went down on his knees near the wall. When he put his hand on the man’s neck to test for a pulse, the skin felt clammy against his palm. He rolled him over on his back, uncertain what to expect.
“Mister! Mister! Can you hear me?” Harvey said.
***
Robert thought he was dreaming until someone moved him. At that point, he realized that either DeLane had come back or he’d been rescued after all.
He tested the air by taking a deep breath and almost cried when oxygen filled his lungs, then went rocketing through his system. Then he choked and spent several precious gasps trying to catch his breath before a normal breathing rhythm kicked in.
“I’ll be damned,” Harvey muttered when the man showed signs of life.
“Hurry up!” he shouted. “He’s in a bad way.”
Robert wanted to tell them they were wrong, that he’d been in a bad way before they came, but not now. Only he couldn’t seem to remember how to breathe and talk at the same time. He figured that would come back to him with time.
When the man started to get up, Robert panicked. He couldn’t—no, wouldn’t—be left alone in here again. Not even if the door was still open. Not even if the entire 45th Infantry Division was standing guard outside the door to keep him safe. He grabbed Harvey’s wrist and wouldn’t let go.
“Stay,” he begged.
Harvey rocked back on his heels, trying to imagine the hell of being shut in here to die, and then reached down and patted the man’s shoulder.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “I promise.”
It wasn’t until they had loaded Robert into the ambulance and were driving away that Harvey realized they’d left the door to George’s crypt standing ajar.
“Do we have to go back?” Marty said. “Couldn’t we at least leave it until daylight?”
“Damn it, Marty. Sometimes you sound too much like my old lady for my peace of mind. Can you honestly tell me that you could go to sleep tonight, knowing you’d left old George to fend for himself?”
Marty frowned. “There’s not a feminine bone in my body,” he muttered. “And Old Man Gooden was mean enough in life. I reckon his ghost can take care of hisself, too.”
“We’re going back,” Harvey said. “And you can stay in the car while I shut the door.”
Marty frowned but remained silent. When they drove back into the cemetery and then parked in front of the old tomb, he pretended to be looking at something out in the Marshalls’ pasture that adjoined the cemetery lot.
“You might want to tell Doc Bartlett that you don’t need those glasses of yours after all,” Harvey said as he opened the door.
“What are you talking about?” Marty muttered.
Harvey grinned, then pointed off in the dark.
“There’s no moon, and I can’t see six inches in front of my face without the headlights of the car, but you seem to be enjoying the view at the Marshalls’ just fine without benefit of either light or glasses. So, I figured you’d suddenly been healed of your vision affliction and—”
“Shut up, Harvey. Just shut the hell up and go close that door,” Marty said, and sat back in the seat with his arms crossed across his chest and his chin thrust forward in a defiant gesture.
Harvey chuckled all the way to the old crypt. When he got to the door, he peered inside.
“Sorry for the interruption, George. Have a nice night.”
Then he pulled hard at the door. When it started swinging toward him, he jumped back. When the old door hit the facing, something clicked, and once again, George Henry Gooden was left to his own company.
***
Laurel was standing near the kitchen phone when it began to ring. She grabbed it the second it made a sound.
“Hello?”
“Miss Scanlon, this is Harper Fonteneau. I thought you would like to know that they found your father. He’s alive. They’ve got him in an ambulance at police headquarters in St. Lorraine, waiting for a Medivac chopper to pick him up and take him to the trauma center in New Orleans.”
Her legs went weak with relief as she turned her face to the wall.
“His condition… is it serious? Is he in danger of—”
“All I know to tell you is he has a head wound and he’s a bit out of it, but still fairly coherent when answering questions. They said he keeps repeating your name and telling you to hide. He says that you’re in danger and not to leave the property until DeLane is arrested.”
“Yes. All right,” Laurel said, and then, reluctant to break the connection, added before the police chief could hang up, “Chief, thank you. Thank you for believing me enough to check out what I saw. Thank you for my father’s life.”
Harper cleared his throat and then smiled.
“You’re welcome. As for believing you… well, you need to remember that us folks here in Bayou Jean had a lifetime with Miz Marcella before she passed. She broke the ground you stand on. So to speak.”
“Yes, I guess she did,” Laurel said. “Do you have the number of the hospital where they’re taking my father?”
“Yep. Got a pen?”
She picked up the pad and pen that Marie used
to make her grocery lists.
“I do now.”
He gave her the address and phone number, then told her they would be out that way to check on her soon.
Laurel wrote quickly.
“Was that good news?” Justin asked. It was the first she’d noticed that he’d come into the room while she was talking to the police chief.
“They found Daddy,” Laurel said. “He’s alive and talking.”
“Praise God,” Marie said, and sat down in a chair as Justin took Laurel in his arms.
“You did good, love,” he said softly.
Laurel put her arms around his neck and leaned into his embrace.
“Yes. I did, didn’t I?” Then she added, “But I couldn’t have done it without his help. Whether he believed me or not, he went along with what I asked him to do.”
“And it turned out all right.”
“Harper said he kept begging them to tell me I was in danger. He said that DeLane is coming for me.”
It was reflex that made Justin look over her shoulder to the windows and then beyond.
“He’ll have to come through me to get here,” he muttered, then turned so that he was between her and the windows and pulled her close against his chest.
***
Trigger was crouched down in the trees surrounding the back yard of the old mansion when a woman suddenly walked past the kitchen windows. He got a brief glimpse of her before she moved out of sight, but the red hair was unmistakable. It was Laurel Scanlon.
His first instinct was to get closer. There was no moon, and the night was dark enough to hide his presence. But just as he started to move, a man appeared at the windows and pulled the curtains, and then he could no longer see.
He cursed and stepped back, then leaned against a nearby tree trunk. He was hot and hungry, and every place on his body that was uncovered, itched. All he needed was one good shot and this trip would be over. But he didn’t have his rifle, and a handgun was no good from this distance.
When he’d known he was going to follow Scanlon to Louisiana, he’d made a quick call to one of his father’s old army buddies, using the excuse that he didn’t want to travel alone in unfamiliar territory without some kind of protection but couldn’t bring his own weapons on the plane.
