by Jessie Cooke
She touched his bruised cheek softly. “This was about me?”
He covered her hand with his. Her skin was so soft, and she smelled as good as she looked and felt. His body was going crazy and he was trying to concentrate on not having an embarrassing bulge in the front of his jeans when he stood up. He pictured his Maw Maw in her housecoat to get rid of it and said, “No. It was about him saying something stupid and me being drunk. But do me a favor?”
“Okay...?”
“Don’t disappear on me again, okay? I really was worried.” He hoped to God she never found out that he was worried she was screwing Blackheart...her dad, maybe. He shuddered at the thought. She gave him a look that said she didn’t completely believe the fight wasn’t about her but all she said was:
“I won’t, I promise. And I’ll apologize to Blackheart too. I hope he’ll understand that I didn’t mean to fall apart like that. I’m a little overwhelmed right now with what’s going on at home...at my parents’ home, though. I guess I’d better get back to that mess. I’m just so angry with them, and I’m not even sure if I can believe anything they say.”
Gabe’s heart hurt for her. He hated that she had to go and do it alone, but it wasn’t something a new boyfriend should be there for. “Okay, but if you need anything, you’ll call me, right?”
She kissed him softly on the lips and smiled. “I will. Thank you, Gabriel.”
“She thinks you killed her?” Sally had just picked up her beer off the bar to take a drink. She sat it back down and looked at Blackheart with wide, brown eyes. He’d found her at Ace’s bar and told her the story. If it had been up to him wholly, he hated to admit, he would have never gone looking for the girl. Sally was the one that told him he had to find out for sure. She told him he’d question it forever if he didn’t. Sometimes he wondered if he was as good a man as Sally thought he was, or if she saw something in him that just wasn’t there. Had he known he had a kid when Patrice was a child and she needed him, he was sure he would have stepped up, but this girl was an adult, and one who didn’t seem to like him all that much to boot.
“I don’t think she really believes that. She just desperately wants to believe her mama didn’t kill herself and leave her alone. All that anger just came out at me.”
“Was there a note, or anything? Did her mother leave a suicide note?”
He shook his head. “Not that she said, and since she did manage to get a copy of the police report, and her mother’s diary, I’m guessing she’d have that too.”
“Hmm, that is weird. I mean, she had her daughter with her when she suddenly decides to kill herself, not leaving anything for the baby, or making any arrangements for her? I know a lot of mothers, and that doesn’t sound very maternal to me.”
Blackheart smiled at her. “You have always had a strong maternal instinct, it’s how you’ve taken such good care of me and the boys all these years.”
She laughed. “Not sure who got the better end of that deal. So, are you going to look into it?”
“We did, of course,” he said, ignoring the last question. But Sally wasn’t going to let it go that easily.
“So, what are you going to do?”
“About what?”
She laughed. “Really? About Patrice.”
“What would you expect me to do?”
“Nope. I’m not going to tell you what to do. You need to figure this one out on your own. But...”
He laughed. “I knew that ‘but’ was coming. Look, mon cherie, she’s an adult. If she’s my kid what difference does it make at this point?”
“If it were me, it would make a world of difference. This girl just found out she was cheated of her mother for twenty-three years. Don’t you think knowing she had a father would ease that a little? And if nothing else you have the resources and the contacts to look into her mother’s suicide. At least put her mind to rest on that one.”
He sighed, rolled his eyes, and took a long drink of his beer. He drained the bottle, set it on the bar, and stood up. When Sally looked up at him, he leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ve got work to do. I’ll have to think about all that later.”
She smiled again. “Sure,” she said, not believing him. They both knew the truth was that he’d like to pretend he didn’t know anything about Patrice or her mother. But now that he did, he would undoubtedly not be able to leave it alone. “Will I see you later?” she asked.
“Les alligators sauvages ne pouvaient pas m’éloigner.” Wild gators couldn’t keep me away. It had taken too many years and almost losing Sally twice for him to finally realize that she was all he ever wanted, or needed. She was still refusing to marry him, or even call herself his old lady...but he was sure he’d convince her someday, or go to his grave trying.
5
Gabe got back to the club in time to finish helping Ripper fix the bar. Ripper didn’t exactly apologize for what he’d said the night before, but the chin nod and “You want a beer, fuck-face?” when he went into the back was good enough for Gabe. They worked side by side for several hours until the already lopsided bar looked as good as, or better than, it had before they’d thrown each other into it the night before. Nothing in the Jokers clubhouse was fancy but it was all built with a lot of sweat and pride, something the bigger clubs weren’t usually able to brag about. Blackheart would deduct the alcohol bottles they’d broken from their pay and anything else he thought they owed the club. He and Gabe had a good relationship, but even with him, Blackheart didn’t play favorites.
When they finished, Ripper bellied up to the new bar and started drinking again and Gabe headed back to his trailer for a shower. He had just walked in when his phone rang. It was Chance, his brother and his best friend.
“Chance, what’s up?”
“I got him.” Chance was out of breath and whispering. Gabe was sure he didn’t have to ask who “him” was. Chance’s girlfriend had been assaulted by several of the “Mad Men,” a club out of Mississippi who the Jokers weren’t on the best terms with to begin with. They had four names, four that Chance’s girl could remember, and Chance and Gabe had already been arrested once for trying to take out guys #2 and #3 at a bar in the Quarter and both of them were out on bail and still had pending court hearings over that one. The Mad Men hadn’t struck back as a club yet, but no one would be surprised with they did...and still, none of that crossed Gabe’s mind before he said:
“Where are you?”
“Down in Manchac. You gotta come, man...you don’t even know how fucked up this is...”
“Oh, fuck no, man! What the hell are you doing down there?”
Chance chuckled. “Big-ass baby! You afraid a Rougarou gonna get ya?” His voice went serious again and he said, “Man, Sharon told me something today...” His phone was breaking up, and Gabe’s mind began to wander.
Gabriel grew up in the Atchafalaya Basin. He ran the swamps when he was a kid, in his Paw’s old rusty boat. He went noodling for catfish, he hunted for gators. He’d gone snake hunting and he’d chased wild pigs armed with nothing more than a six-inch blade. But there were still some things that even a kid who had swamp water running in his veins didn’t want to chance tangling with. As he got older, he spent a lot of time with his friends in New Orleans, and of course a bunch of boys can’t resist a spooky dare or two. Gabe had been the butt of a few of those dares, and he’d seen things out in that swamp at night that he couldn’t even bring himself to tell anyone about. He wasn’t scared of anything that he could look in the eye, but swamps were spooky places, even without all the history that came along with them; and growing up surrounded by Cajuns who strongly believed in all things supernatural, Gabe had heard all the stories. So, the damp, gloomy expanses of weed-choked wetlands and the shiny eyes of the gators and other things lurking and slithering in the brush or along the top of the green water rarely fazed him...it was the history that did.
The Atchafalaya had its own legends, but of all the swamps in the area, Manchac was one of th
e most “colorful.” That particular swamp outdid even itself when it came to creepy legends. It was known all over the US and most especially in New Orleans as one of the biggest epicenters in the country of the unexplained. As a teen, Gabe and his friends had gone down there at night when there was nothing but a sliver of a moon to light their way, trying to test those theories even though many of the elderly people in their community swore that there were countless cases over the years of people who had gone into that swamp and never came back. That was scary shit, but what scared Gabe more was what people said about the ones that did come back...that they were “changed” somehow and that if they missed the “curse” the first time they went in, it was sure to befall them the second. The last time Gabe had gone down there was when he was fourteen years old, and he’d lived for years after wondering if he’d “missed the curse” or if that was why everything bad that happened to him afterwards did. When his parents were killed in that car accident, the first thing the then sixteen-year-old thought of was his night in the Manchac Swamp.
That night Gabe had gone on a dare from some of the older boys in his school, and he’d gone alone. He always felt like he had something to prove, and at that time what he wanted to prove was that he wasn’t scared of anything...not even the stories of the Voodoo priestess who still haunted those waters. Chance had mentioned the Rougarou, the Cajun version of a ten-foot-tall, human-like wolf that roamed the bayou...but Gabe had never been frightened of monsters. It was people who worried him, especially people like Julie White.
When Chance stopped talking, although Gabe hadn’t been able to hear most of what he’d said, he told him, “Man, I think we should wait. Catch up to him another time,” already knowing what Chance would say and already headed back out to his bike.
“Fuck that. This might be our last chance to get this asshole alone. Besides, he’s got a girl down here and she doesn’t look all that happy to have him pawing all over her. He’s not doing this shit again. Another woman is not going to live through what Sharon is still fucking going through. They’re in a pirogue, he’s got it tied off along the side, looking to get laid whether she wants to or not. He’s gonna be in for a big, fucking surprise. I’ll call you when I’m done then...”
“Nah, bullshit. I’ll be there. Don’t do anything ’til I get there.” The Mad Men were known for not fighting fair and Gabe wouldn’t forgive himself if something happened to his brother because he was too spooked to show up and have his back. The last thing he wanted was for his brothers, or anyone for that matter, to think he was a wimp, but he seriously hated this shit. Maybe it came from growing up with parents and grandparents who strongly believed in the paranormal aspect of New Orleans, but no matter how hard he tried to convince himself it was all bullshit, and he hadn’t really seen anything the night he was out there alone, he was still a believer.
The ride to where he was supposed to meet Chance would take about twenty-five minutes, but he would reach the swamp at least ten minutes before that and pass the spot where he knew he’d seen the spirit of that evil woman...Julie White. As soon as he hit the dirt road that ran along the stagnant green waters, choked with vegetation and algae, he could see the glint of a hundred pairs of eyes watching him. He was sure that most, if not all of them, were the gators and other critters that slithered along the mud-caked shores, but it did nothing to quell his anxiety. He willed himself not to think of “Her,” but it was impossible. Julie White was the star of one of the most popular and persistent tales that surrounded the Manchac, and since he was fourteen, the star of his worst nightmares as well. Julie was a Voodoo priestess. The facts of her life were that she resided near the swamp in the late 1800s and early 1900s in a cabin that faced the water, as far away from people and the city as she could possibly get. She, like many of the swamp people, lived off the land and the swamp as much as she could to survive...but Julie White also had a side gig.
She lived during a time when Voodoo was prominent in Louisiana, brought to its shores by the West African slaves and the Haitians that came as refugees from the revolution that was tearing apart their country. The concentration of Voodoo practitioners in New Orleans was so thick that it soon evolved into its own brand of the religion, relying heavily on gris-gris (charms and amulets), herbs, poisons, and the ever infamous voodoo dolls, and fed by the priestesses who were both feared and revered by all. Most people have heard about Marie Laveau but although Julie White was lesser known, that didn’t make her any less powerful.
In Julie’s reigning days, respected members of society—lawyers, judges, doctors, and the like—came to her with their problems or questions, and even consulted with her over important business matters or matters of the state. They all feared her, and Julie knew most of them hated her. She hated them as well and thought them hypocrites because of the fancy lives they lived in the city, and the way they’d sneak out to see her when they thought no one was looking. So, for years she took their money and handed out her advice, her potions, and her curses, but legend had it that Julie also handed one out that no one had asked for. Toward the end of her life, she’d sit on her front porch singing spooky songs about death and destruction and she delighted in the fear that her evil looks or arcane gestures would instill in anyone passing by along the swamp in front of her house. But worst of all, she began to talk about her own death, and how it was coming soon. That idea didn’t scare them, not until she promised she planned on taking with her as many of the citizens of New Orleans as she could. She also promised that her soul would live forever in the swamps and anyone who trespassed would be cursed as well. Some people believed her; others scoffed at her and waited for her demise. On a day in 1915, the day they buried Julie White at last, one of the worst hurricanes of the decade passed through New Orleans, and a tidal wave of epic proportions swept through the crowd of people at her funeral and three villages beyond. Hundreds of people died that day and according to legend, there was nowhere to put all the bodies. So, as unceremoniously as it sounds, a mass grave was dug for them in Manchac and it’s said even a hundred years later that bones still float up to the surface at night and become tangled in fishing nets, or scrape against the bottoms of boats as if asking to be let in.
People have also reported seeing Julie’s ghost, floating across the water and through the tangled boughs of the cypress trees at night, like a loose piece of Spanish moss, looking for a place to settle. And that was what Gabe had seen that night he’d stayed out there alone in that swamp. As he had lain huddled in the bottom of his Paw’s old boat, something floated above him, settling just low enough to brush across his face and causing him to dive out into the dark, gator-infested waters and swim to the shore for his life. He could still feel her sometimes at night when he closed his eyes, and now he was returning to the scene of the crime, so to speak, and wondering if he was putting his life and the lives of those he loved at risk, simply by doing so.
6
“This is it?” Blackheart looked at the papers in the skinny folder that his friend John Logan had slid across the table. He’d called Logan as soon as he left Baton Rouge, even before he spoke to Sally. Patrice had piqued his curiosity, even if he wasn’t sure what he might do with anything he found out.
“That’s it. The family didn’t want an autopsy.”
“But there’s a toxicology screen.”
“Yeah, from what I was able to find out from Sampson, who was the ME assistant in those days, as part of the police investigation they took blood for the toxicology screen and they checked the body for any signs that there was foul play prior to her jumping off that balcony and hitting the cement. She had a blood alcohol level of about half the legal limit and she was positive for cannabis. That was it. They obviously found bruising from the landing, but nothing that they could definitively say came before she climbed over that rail and ended up on the pavement. The NOPD said the door was locked from the inside and there wasn’t any evidence anyone else had been in the room except the baby, but it�
�s a hotel so they did have about a dozen or so random prints. Not that they ever followed up on them. It was declared a suicide pretty quickly and the family claimed the body right away. Her father had died just a week before and Sampson said they didn’t want to drag things out since they’d been through so much. Her dad was some bigwig in Congress and her mother came from a rich family that’s been in NOLA for centuries, so I’m sure that had something to do with the rush. Sampson said they were also all warned not to talk to the press about any of it if they came calling. He said the poor girl wasn’t even given a proper funeral. She’s interred at the family cemetery in Lakewood...”
“The cemetery is connected to the estate?”
“Yeah.” He handed Blackheart another file, one that had a picture of a huge, brick home with pillars in front. It was surrounded by iron gates, and in the photo a lush green lawn and thick rows of rose gardens could be seen stretching along a brick wall that matched the exterior of the home. “This is it, I looked it up for you because I knew you’d ask.” Logan smiled and popped a French fry in his mouth while Blackheart looked at the photo. After he chased it with a drink of his sweet tea he said, “It sits on two acres: six bedrooms, four baths, a disconnected three-car garage, and a mother-in-law house in the back. The cemetery has ten plots according to what’s filed with the parish clerk. Six of them are full, I reckon the other four are waiting for the rest of the family...don’t know why nobody lives there now though. It’s been empty for about ten years since the old woman, the matriarch, died.”
“Whose name is on the deed?”
“Cindy Leboux.”
