Bayou Hero

by Marilyn Pappano

  “It must have been a relief for Mary Ellen to escape the abuse.”

  “You’d think that, wouldn’t you?” He gave her a wry look. “She hated it. Hated leaving home and her friends and Mom and Miss Viola and me. Hated the weather, the activities, the classes. She even hated the food. Said her Louisiana-bred stomach couldn’t tolerate it.” His voice turned hollow. “She blamed me. She insisted she could have handled things at home, but I never gave her a chance. She hated it so much that she was sick the first six months she was there.”

  Now she insisted there had been nothing at home to handle. Alia could sympathize. Intellectually, she could sort of understand, but realistically she didn’t get it. Landry and Miss Viola had offered her a way out of a nightmare. Sure, she’d been homesick; of course, she’d felt as if she’d lost everything and everyone of importance to her. But to make herself sick, then to put the details of that nightmare out of her mind as if it had never happened...

  “Did you see her during that time?”

  Landry shrugged. “A few times. We didn’t talk like we used to. Things were getting better by her senior year, but she got upset all over again that I wouldn’t go to her graduation. Miss Viola offered to pay my way, but our parents were going. It would have been the first time I’d seen Jeremiah since I moved out. I couldn’t do it.” He sucked in a loud breath. “I was a coward. I was praying I’d never see him again as long as I lived.”

  A coward? For not wanting to face his brutal father? It saddened her that he’d ever thought such a thing.

  “You were a brave kid, Landry, and stronger than most people ever become. And now you won’t have to face the bastard ever again. The Jackson/Davison family can be normal again, one big happy family. One set of birthday parties, one set of holidays.” Mention of holidays reminded her of something Jimmy had brought up earlier. Where have these bastards been getting their thrills since their own kids grew up?

  The thought sent a shiver of dread through her, despite the heat radiating from Landry’s body. In the thirty hours or so between him telling her about the abuse and Jimmy asking that question, her entire focus had been on the victims in the distant past. She’d never given a second’s thought to later, probably even current, victims.

  Rising to lean on her right arm, she gave him a troubled look. “Those birthdays and holidays Mary Ellen spent with your parents...” Oh, God, she didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to put even the whisper of a possibility into his mind, but it was a valid question. An urgent question. “Were they limited to Mary Ellen’s family and your parents? How did the admiral interact with the kids? How much time did he get...alone...with...”

  Rage darkened Landry’s face, his body frozen with it, his breathing stilled by it. “No,” he said, but it wasn’t even a whisper, no voice, no substance, just denial. “No. She might pretend it never happened, but surely somewhere inside she knows better than to leave him alone with her babies. She would never, ever let anyone hurt the girls. Never.”

  He stopped abruptly, his face taking on a sickly tinge. “They’ve been doing it all this time, haven’t they? It wasn’t some sort of game they played while it was convenient, then gave up when it wasn’t. They’ve been finding other kids...”

  He lunged out of bed and for the door. A moment later, Alia heard the retching as he emptied his stomach in the bathroom. She sat up, sheet tucked under her arms, her eyes closed. There was a reason she’d never made a go of child sex crimes investigations. Her days would have been filled with heartbreaking interviews with victims, kicking the living crap out of suspects, losing her job for use of excessive force and puking out her guts every night. There were people, thank God, who did it, who had that strength, but she wasn’t one of them.

  After a moment, he came back into the room, walked to the windows, pushed aside the curtains and stared out. He seemed unaware that he was naked, lightning giving tempting views of his lean muscled body before shadow enveloped him again. He was gorgeous. Glorious.

  And he was breaking her heart.

  “The first time...” Between the wind, rain and thunder, his voice was barely audible.

  “I wanted to die.”

  Alia drew her knees to her chest and hugged them tightly. Every breath of the woman inside her wanted to go to him, wrap her arms around him, tell him he didn’t have to go on, tell him everything would be all right and bring him back to bed.

  The cop in her held back. Talking was one of the hardest things any victim ever had to do. If he was able to share these ugly, painful memories with her, the least she could do was listen.

  “Finally I learned to just take it.” His voice was heavy with derision.

  “One Saturday evening, just before my fifteenth birthday, he told me and Mary Ellen to be ready by eight. Mom was already so drunk she couldn’t stand up by herself. She got that way a lot when he was home for weekends. Mary Ellen whispered that she didn’t feel good and asked Mom if she could stay home. Camilla just looked away from her, as if she didn’t even hear, but her face turned bright red, as if she was ashamed of herself.”

  Alia let herself imagine the conversation: the exclusive neighborhood, the beautiful house, the lovely room filled with priceless antiques, the three tormented people and Jeremiah, Satan in disguise. She could smell the gin and the anger and the fear, could see the tension vibrating the air.

  “Mary Ellen started to cry. That always set Jeremiah off in a rage, so I stepped up and said, ‘I’m not going.’”

  What a shock that must have been to the admiral, so accustomed to giving commands and seeing them followed. That his own son would dare say no, would make a stand, must have touched off every spore of his rich-white-male-officer sense of entitlement.

  “I thought he was going to kill me. I grabbed Mary Ellen and dragged her upstairs and locked us in my room. He would have caught us before we made it to the door, but Mom jumped from her chair and stumbled against him. He had to get her out of the way before he could follow us, and by then we’d barricaded the bedroom door with the dresser. It was the only time she ever intervened.” A note of surprise, even wonder, softened his voice as he turned to look at her. “I’d forgotten that.”

  Bleakly he lowered his head, scrubbed his face with his hands. “She should have done more, but at least she tried that time.”

  “She should have cut his genitals off years ago and fed them to the gators.”

  He smiled faintly. “Not a bit bloodthirsty, are you?”

  She smiled, too, just a little. “My job is to protect people who can’t protect themselves.”

  “Your passion,” he clarified.

  “Yes,” she agreed. Unfolding her legs, she slid to the edge of the bed, trailing the sheet behind her until it fell loose, and she went to stand in front of him. “That, and you.”

  He laid his palm against her cheek, warm and callused, and for the longest time just looked down at her. Bringing his forehead to rest against hers, he gave a long, soft sigh as if releasing the tension inside him. “I’m a lucky man, Alia,” he whispered.

  Alia wasn’t the girliest of girls. She’d been a rough-and-tumble kid, and not a lot had changed as an adult. She carried a gun. She ran like the wind. She lifted weights and subjected herself both to being tasered and pepper sprayed. She could hold her own in a physical confrontation against men who outweighed her two to one. She didn’t get all gooey-soft inside, didn’t have a sentimental bone in her body, and couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried.

  At least—she sniffled and held tightly to Landry—until now.

  * * *

  Landry was still awake when the alarm on the opposite nightstand went off. Alia stirred in his arms, reaching blindly behind her, silencing it, then settling into even, steady breathing again. Her hair fell across her face, trailed across his shoulder and chest, shifting lightly with each exh
alation.

  Just a few hours ago, he’d told her that he didn’t have much trouble sleeping anymore, but since then he’d lain awake, one subject running through his mind: he should have gone to the police, the way Miss Viola had wanted, all those years ago. Maybe they wouldn’t have believed him, but at least the suspicion would have been planted. Word would have got out—the city loved its gossip—and maybe a few people would have kept their kids away from Jeremiah and his buddies. Maybe a few kids could have been spared. But no, he’d been selfish, afraid to try, concerned only with himself and Mary Ellen. He hadn’t given a damn—hadn’t even spared a thought—about anyone else involved.

  The guilt was nagging, sharp edged, but he found a little comfort in Dr. Granville’s regular theme: You were a kid. A victim. You’re not responsible. He did bear part of the responsibility, but not as much as the men did. And maybe it wasn’t enough, but he could help stop them. They wouldn’t hurt any other kids.

  The alarm beeped again, and with a groan, Alia shoved her hair back from her face, then slowly, sleepily smiled. Without makeup, her hair a tangle and weariness etching lines on her face, she was beautiful. Warm. Solid. Naked. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning.”

  She sat up, turned off the alarm, then stretched her arms high above her head. The movement gave him an incredible view of her back, spine straight, skin soft and caramel in color, muscles flexing, waist narrowing in, hips flaring out. Bending, she found her pajamas and pulled on the top, then shimmied into the shorts. “When did the storm stop?”

  He glanced at the windows, hearing the rainfall but no thunder, seeing no lightning. “A while ago.” It was just a guess. He’d been too preoccupied to notice.

  “Sorry about the alarm. I’ll be quiet getting ready so you can go back to sleep.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek, then shuffled out of the room.

  He should put on his damp clothes, go home and sleep in his own bed, but the idea seemed entirely too much work when he was already naked and in bed and so damn tired. Besides, he liked the idea of sleeping in Alia’s bed, of smelling her scent on the pillow and sheets, of being surrounded by the feel and the thought and the memory of her.

  His eyes drooped shut as he turned onto his side, one arm resting on her pillow. He was vaguely aware of water running, bare feet padding past the door, clothing swishing and heels tapping by again, the aroma of coffee drifting on still air. A sense of well-being seeped through him, of comfort and belonging and safety, as his mind finally shut down and he drifted to sleep.

  It was hours before he woke up, still in the same position. The continuing rain cast the room in shadows, but he came alert with instant awareness of his surroundings. Alia’s house. Alia’s bed.

  It took a moment to realize it was the cell phone that had awakened him. Sometime before leaving, she’d emptied his pockets on the night table—keys, wallet, fewer condoms than he’d left home with and the cell that was ringing again—and taken his damp shorts from the room. He stretched across to reach the phone, settling into the now-cooled sheets where she’d lain earlier, and said hello to Mary Ellen.

  “Did I wake you?”

  His gaze flickered to the clock. It was a few minutes till twelve. “Yeah, but it was time to get up anyway.”

  “I don’t know how you manage, working all night and sleeping through the morning. My girls would have a fit if I tried.”

  “I don’t have girls,” he pointed out. He only had the one, and she’d left hours ago.

  “The blessings in my life.” After a moment, she added, “You and Scott, too, of course. Could I interest you in lunch?”

  It had been a long time since last night’s muffaletta, and he’d expended a fair amount of energy since then. “Sure. Where do you want to go?”

  “Oh, it’s rainy and wet and the girls are visiting friends. Why don’t you come over here, and Geneva will fix that squash casserole you like.”

  Yellow squash, onions, butter and bread crumbs... It was worth getting out of bed and going out into the rain for. He told her he’d be over soon and hung up, but it took him another ten minutes to get up and dress. He took the stairs two at a time, stopped abruptly at the bottom, then went into the kitchen, where he found a notepad beside the refrigerator with a pen. He needed another five minutes to decide what to say, finally settling on two words: Call me. Tearing off the sheet, he anchored it on the counter in front of the candy jars, where Alia was sure to find it.

  The house was quiet but not in an empty way. Alia’s energy was everywhere, seeped into furnishings and rugs and old cypress boards. He felt its absence the instant he locked the front door behind him. He missed it.

  But he would be back.

  After a stop at his apartment to change clothes, he drove across town, wipers swiping away the rain every few seconds. He arrived at Mary Ellen’s house to find her waiting for him on the gallery, looking pretty as a picture. Southern Belle at Leisure. Her hair was pulled back, her makeup applied, her dress flattering in a deep rosy pink. It was the best he’d seen her look since the day Jeremiah died.

  She led him through the house and into the sunroom, where a wicker table was set with china, crystal and silver, familiar patterns that he’d seen at every meal here. Soon she would be making room for their mother’s dishes, probably giving them the place of honor simply because they were Camilla’s.

  “I saw Daddy’s lawyer this morning,” she said once they were seated and Geneva had served the salads. Her smile was plaintive. “I told him I want half the money to go to you. Half ownership of the house, too.”

  Landry stared at her, totally surprised on the surface. His subconscious, though, had half expected this. She was sweet and giving, and she’d never blamed him for not getting along with their parents.

  He hesitated, touched beyond words, before gently, quietly saying, “I appreciate the thought, but I don’t want his money, Mary Ellen, or the house.”

  “You’re his son. You’re entitled to it. Keep it, give it away—I don’t care, but this is something I have to do. I’ve already signed the paperwork, so it’ll do no good to argue with me.” Her hand shook as she prodded the salad greens with her fork. “What should we do about the house? I hate to let it pass out of the family, but I couldn’t possibly live there, not with the memories it holds now.”

  Landry’s fingers clenched the fork. She was so fragile that he found it easy to forget that she had bulldog traits, as well. Sometimes she got an idea in her head and there was no distracting her. She worried at it—and him—until she was satisfied they’d done the discussion justice.

  What to do about the house? He’d left seventeen years ago and had zero desire to return. He didn’t give a good damn whether she sold it, let it stand empty until it crumbled in on itself or burned it to the ground. But neither of those last answers would satisfy her. While he was still considering what to say, she spoke again, idly, with a hint of pleasure.

  “You and your bride could live there.”

  His gaze lifted, his brows arching. “I’m not even dating anyone.” No, he and Alia had totally skipped that first relationship step and gone straight to the good stuff.

  “You will someday. You’ll fall in love and get married and maybe even have kids, and what a great home to provide them when that day comes.”

  Not nearly as great as a cute little Creole cottage in Serenity, which didn’t even have a second bedroom, thanks to its owner’s fondness for clothes.

  “I don’t know about the marrying and kids part—” though he was less sure today that it wouldn’t happen than he’d been a week ago, even a day ago “—but I wouldn’t live there.”

  “Do you know how many people are just waiting for a chance to buy a Saint Charles Avenue mansion?”

  He was sure there were plenty. The Saint Charles name had always been special in the Garden
District. As far as he was concerned, any one of them could have it. But he didn’t want it. “You have good memories of the house,” he said carefully. “I don’t. As Jeremiah started telling me when I was about six, I wasn’t cut out to be a Jackson. I’m certainly not cut out to live in the Jackson mansion.”

  Whatever lightness had made its way into her expression slipped away, leaving her melancholy and regretful. “Landry, he set terribly strict standards for you, and he was wrong. He never acknowledged that you weren’t like him and never would be, and that was unfair of him. But if he’d known he was going to die, he would have mended things with you. I know he would.”

  She looked so hopeful, trying to convince herself that it was true. Of course Jeremiah had known he was going to die someday, but he’d still never shown any interest in Landry. His son had written him off, and by God, Jeremiah had erased him from existence in his world.

  Geneva took away the salads, though neither of them had eaten more than a few bites, and served the meal on plates translucent with age: shrimp-stuffed chicken breasts, squash casserole and green beans fresh from someone’s garden. Mary Ellen thanked her with a fond smile, picked up her fork, then set it down again.

  “I miss him so much, Landry,” she whispered, tears glistening in her eyes. “Mama, too, of course, but Daddy...I was with him the night before he died, and he was happy and healthy and so strong, and then... It breaks my heart the horror they went through.”

  At least Landry had got a taste of Geneva’s squash casserole before Mary Ellen finished talking. Now there were knots in his stomach, and his heart was breaking, too, for his sister’s denial, for her continued insistence that their parents had deserved love and respect, for himself because he couldn’t share her delusion.

  They were dead, for God’s sake—killed for their sins. Somewhere inside her, Mary Ellen had to know that. Couldn’t she acknowledge it even a little? If not, if the memory was that deeply buried, couldn’t she at least keep it to herself?