by S. A. Austin
A deep rumble of thunder.
Yeager made herself visible by leisurely walking up and down Decatur Street.
Officers Hebert and Martin had been assigned to protect her. Easily distracted by a couple of passersby who wanted to speak with them about the recent murders, the men proved themselves incapable of keeping their eyes and ears open for opportunities to advance their careers.
Yeager moved closer to the alley hunting for a doorway to duck into in a sudden rainstorm.
A large raven swooped down as if to chase her away. She ran headlong into the alley. A thunderclap muffled the sound of her being struck from behind with a bat carelessly discarded a moment later. She fell where she’d been standing looking for shelter. Strong arms lifted her up, and half dragged her to the curb. To the discerning eye, they were just a couple of drunks.
Yeager was loaded into the back seat of a car. Covered in a black or dark blue bed sheet.
CHAPTER 47
“The new novel gathered no moss because it was dead in the water like the reflection of the man in the moon.” BJ made a face.
I’m so damn brain dead I can’t even come up with a decent figure of speech.
After having had a couple of phone conversations with Detective Schein she’d collected enough data to shape the nonfiction story. He told her he had arranged for her to interview the boys, now grown men, who made the grisly discovery in the old well.
And that was that.
She still wasn’t able to describe the crime scene using her imagination. The subject matter just didn’t have a true feel to it.
Had Detective Schein successfully planted seeds of doubt in her mind?
“Why would he?”
If I go there, do I truly want to waste time on guessing his motives?
She had better things to do with her time, and one of those things, whether she wanted to or not, was to see the place in person. She hadn’t set a time and date to view the property with the detective. No clue why she’d been reluctant to do so.
“Something about this whole situation is off. What appears to be, is not.”
Warning bells.
Red flags.
A full range of chestnuts to choose from.
BJ paced the spacious den. Stopped short. She looked all around like she was seeing the room for the first time. Every which way she turned there were someone else’s family photos, knickknacks, and other memorabilia. There wasn’t one logical reason for her to be in Sonnier’s house. She never even met the guy.
The hell with this, I’m going home.
She turned off the laptop, an old gray 13-inch piece of crap with one broken hinge and no carrying case, that she had run across online. It not only worked, but more importantly, it was portable. She placed it in a large microfiber pouch with a drawstring that she had purchased at a discount store. Hurried to the bedroom to pack her clothes.
Stashed her belongings in her car.
Cleaned every room in the house before leaving.
Too bone-weary to fix dinner, BJ stopped in at Wild Capers. Beau, her new maître d’, greeted her with a genuine smile. First Amos, now Beau. She hoped she didn’t have to go through the whole damn alphabet. She ordered her signature dish, and a to-go box.
It didn’t take much for her to know Frank had not come home during her absence. No luggage in the hall closet. No laundry in the hamper. No dishes in the sink. Only the familiar silence had greeted her at the door.
* * *
BJ awoke to find a crimson morn. She had never gone to bed before without first closing the mini blinds. The red sky was a sign. The devil’s own luck? Or mischance? Whichever, there was definitely a change on the way.
She has thought about death and dying all of her life. Kneeling before the open trunk in the attic when she was thirteen she glided her fingers across three colorful strips of glass covering the top of an old music box with a twirling ballerina inside belonging to Mama. She recalled thinking she would never live long enough to grow old.
BJ set aside the boondoggle novel to work on the nonfiction book. Settled on The Secret of the Well for the working title.
Lingering over coffee made from her own choice blend (not the stale stuff Sonnier had) she finally made up her mind to make an appointment with Detective Schein to view the well and the farmhouse. Later, if need be, she’d arrange to meet the three men who discovered the body.
She topped off her cup, carried it outside.
A large blackbird landed on the birdbath she didn’t remember standing back up.
“Be gone, Edapo,” she yelled, “and stop interfering with my business.” She pitched the cup at him so fast she missed, but managed to splash coffee on her white shirt.
The ancient raven she’d named after Edgar Allen Poe continued to stare at her. She believed the creature was a rougarou transformed into a bird.
She stormed into the house, slammed the door hard enough to rattle the windows. Tread heavily back and forth in the hallway for several minutes until she calmed down.
BJ hunted for the slip of paper with Detective Schein’s cell phone number.
CHAPTER 48
“Hello,” said Jacob, lowering his voice when someone opened the door. “Hold on a minute, please, I’ll be right with you.” He flattened his thumb over the mouthpiece. Lit up a cigarette to show why he was sitting there with his thumb over the mouthpiece. Waited for the older cop to fill in four blank lines on a short form. Smiled weakly when the guy gave him a fleeting look.
Jacob had been temporarily reassigned to the evidence locker. His partner, Darrell O’Rourke, had died on the operating table undergoing surgery following a colonoscopy. He felt cheated. O’Rourke survived knee surgery long enough to complete his evaluation report on Jacob. But damn. The big slob up and died before turning it in. So Jacob came up with this crazy scheme to break into O’Rourke’s house, steal the report, alter it if necessary, then sneak into the captain’s office and plant it on his desk. The neighbor’s damn bloodhound dog sniffed him out before he even got started.
The officer lay the piece of stiff paper in a wire basket, nodded goodbye.
“I’m back. How can I help you this time, Miz Donovan?”
“You can start by calling me BJ. And I’ve decided to take your advice. I need to visit the old well in order to write an accurate description.” She lightly rubbed her forehead to ward off a headache. “I don’t understand why I can’t visualize the place. Seen one water well, you’ve seen them all. Right? Anyway, something blocks the scene every time I try to put it together.”
He got a spiral notepad out of his shirt pocket. On the other side of the room, Detective Northcutt conversed with a man Jacob didn’t recognize.
“Today’s Wednesday,” Jacob murmured, noisily turning the lined sheets of paper to the page where he’d written this week’s schedule. “Next two days I work the night shift.” He raised his voice. “They’re finally putting me in a patrol car by myself, for the first time. Mm, Saturday. I’ve got the day shift. How about Saturday evening? Say around five-thirty? My shift’ll be over at four, but I might want to grab a sandwich, and change out of my uniform.”
“Works for me. I hope you know I appreciate the help you’ve given me so far, in particular, the story idea. Which do you prefer? For me to meet you at the police department or at the café next door?” Any place other than my house. Or my restaurant, she thought.
“It’d be less complicated to just give you the address and have you meet me at the farm. You never know. I might have some unfinished business here at work to take care of.”
And I can’t hang around the police station until you’re done? Northcutt’s face materialized in her head. She’d rather not run into him. “All right.”
Unsure if the men were still in back of him, and preferring not to turn and look thus drawing unwanted attention to himself, Jacob whispered the address to BJ.
She jotted down the information. “See you Saturday.”
“
Bye.”
Jacob shut off his cell phone.
Turned it back on.
Then cut it back off.
Dammit.
He didn’t want any more calls from her, but he couldn’t risk her calling the department asking to speak with a frickin’ detective named Raynor Schein.
With his shift nearly over he began collecting his things off the desk, and packing them in a knapsack. His mind’s eye went to the gas gauge in his car. Three-quarters of a tank. Good enough. It occurred to him a few minutes ago that he better head on over to the farm today since it’s his only chance to go. He wouldn’t be on the day shift again until the weekend.
Jacob hadn’t been there in a long time. He needed to see if there’s anything at the farm BJ Donovan should not see.
CHAPTER 49
Evelyn Adrian was drawn to the bedroom window by an out of place noise. She watched a man walk across the back yard. It was hard to see his face under mirrored sunglasses and a black Saints ball cap pulled down low enough to make his ears stick out.
She edged closer for a better look.
Tall, muscular, late twenties or early thirties. Jet-black hair.
She held the fireplace poker tighter in her fists, curious about why he’s there. He roamed amongst irregular rows of Joe Pye weed standing a good two feet taller than him. The hardy plant, with its thick stems and fragrant flowers, had run amok across the entire farm. Up until that moment, she had viewed the mass of weeds as a protective barrier between her and the rest of the world.
With a great sigh of relief, she watched him head over to the barn instead of the house.
The hayloft doors were on the right side of the barn, and faced the upstairs windows of the house at an angle. A large elm festooned with Spanish moss, that was as stunning as it was spooky, stood between the main entrance of the barn and its right front corner providing much needed shade in that hot and humid state. The branches of the old tree scraped the edge of the roof in a light breeze and just about hid the semi-dark square of the loft opening.
A cautious step back. If he goes to the loft, he’d be able to see her.
I wish he’d hurry up.
She glimpsed at the setting sun.
It’s going to be dark soon. Too dark.
He came out. Walked up to the elm, put his hands on a branch above his head, and looked directly at her window. She ducked down, even though there’s only darkness beyond the sheers.
She raised her head to the height of the windowsill. Without disturbing the sheers, she surveyed the yard all the way to the horizon. Didn’t see hide nor hair of him, anywhere.
Concerned about being trapped upstairs, she was about to run for her life when she heard the sound of an engine, the quietness of the place making it seem louder than it probably was. She propped the wrought iron poker against the bed where she always kept it. Rushed down to the foyer, opened the door just enough to peer out.
No car, only a trail of dust.
Thank goodness he’s gone.
Evelyn wondered if the boonies might be more dangerous than the city?
Her apartment building had burned to the ground in a raging fire, allegedly set by members of a rival gang of the equally nasty gang residing at the low-income housing property where she had lost almost everything she owned.
Good thing she was at work when it happened. She would’ve lost her life, and most likely her only mode of transportation, which also became a place to live. Currently, her car was safely hidden on the borrowed property she now calls Home.
It took a while for her to get used to the quietness of the farm after living at The Immeuble where drugs were bought and sold daily, heated arguments between couples spilled out of the buildings and onto the grounds, occasional gunfire, loud music, weekly visits from the cops usually late at night, little kids running wild with no adult supervision, and day by day racket across the street where the older side of the apartment complex was being demolished for reconstruction.
She had found the farmhouse by accident.
One night when she got off work from Agate Novelties gift shop on Decatur Street she came home to find she no longer had a home. She drove around the city, in no particular direction, figuring out what to do other than feeling sorry for herself.
Stopping at a truck stop to refuel, she noticed that several cars were parked on the opposite side of the big rigs. Inside the building was a shower, a restaurant, and even a laundromat.
Evelyn didn’t have any friends to lean on. A year ago, her new husband brought her to New Orleans. Deserted her six months later. Leaving her with bills to pay and no money to pay them, staying at her sister’s house back in Maine was her only option. She’d need a lot of money to make the long trip. But she only had a part-time job making minimum wage.
No longer burdened with rent and utilities, she reasoned, she’d live at the truck stop for free and save her money. Spending the night Monday through Friday went unseen by the managers. Spending the weekend did not. She wasn’t just politely asked to leave. She was threatened with a pending phone call to the authorities along with possible charges of vagrancy and loitering, and for soliciting the truck drivers.
Evelyn was shocked over the last accusation, as she had done nothing morally wrong.
At the same time, a severe thunderstorm warning was issued. Trying to get out of the city at night she got lost. The entire time she’d been in New Orleans, she had never ventured any further than the area where she lived and worked. Driving around an unfamiliar part, she was overcome with fear and anxiety. Power lines had come down because of the weather and tree branches, leaving the place in almost total darkness.
I’ve got to get back to the truck stop. There’s nowhere else to go until tomorrow.
In the midst of a downpour while crawling through heavy traffic she made a wrong turn.
Ended up on the road to a farm on the outskirts of New Orleans.
The old dark farmhouse stood alone on the side of a dirt road.
She got a flashlight out of the trunk of her car, and climbed the steps to the wraparound porch. A cool breeze rippled her T-shirt. Bright lightning flashed on the horizon. A far-off crackle of thunder. About to knock and ask directions, the door creaked open. She backed up. A wind gust whipped her long, straight hair in a frenzy.
“Hello?” she called out, cautiously pushing the door open wider with the flashlight.
Waiting in the foyer at the foot of a bare wood staircase, she cast the beam high and low. Saw what she believed was a smudge of blood on the edge of the bottom step. Convinced herself that it made no sense for blood to be there, therefore it was something else.
On her left was the living room. A narrow hallway separated it from the stairs. She poked her head in the doorless entrance long enough to see the room was large and partially furnished. The light fell on the white outline of a lopsided picture that used to hang above the redbrick fireplace. There are no other doors in the living room. She had no interest, whatsoever, to set foot in the uninviting space.
A slow and deliberate inspection of the first floor revealed no one lives there anymore.
Or does it just appear that way?
Being an unwelcome visitor was not to her liking.
She took hold of the wobbly newel post, aimed the flashlight at the top of the staircase. Clear and frightening images flitting in and out of her mind, she tried in vain to hold the light steady as she sneaked up the stairs.
Zigzagging the light along the hallway, Evelyn resisted the urge to look at the gloom closing in behind her. After a rushed search of the second floor, she found four near-empty bedrooms and one moldy bathroom.
She looked at the ceiling. Slowly putting one foot in front of the other, she made herself go toward the third floor stairway. Trembling, she paused near the bottom step to gather up her courage before proceeding. Accidentally swung her hand into the saclike web of a Louisiana jumping spider. She yelped before noticing that the thing didn’t get on her. The
best eyesight of all spiders, she just knew it was watching her. Webs infested every corner, crack, and crevice.
She fixed her gaze on the wall where the right side of the staircase was attached.
“Another smudge of blood?”
Do I really need to see the attic?
“Yeah, I probably should.”
The family might’ve sought refuge from rising floodwaters. They might’ve cut a hole in the ceiling and climbed out onto the roof. They might need rescuing.
She recalled the bone-dry foyer.
Okay, they would’ve seen my headlights, if nothing else. And this storm isn’t a hurricane.
A long-drawn-out sigh.
She had to know. Had to know if someone else, like some big scary guy with a machete, had already staked out a claim on the property. And would he go so far as to murder her in her sleep in order to keep it?
If I had any sense I would just get the heck out of here. Go someplace safe, and spend the night in the car.
About to head up to the attic, she became aware of the wailing wind and the banging of loose shutters. The storm’s getting closer. Images of her being jammed in highway traffic, and either the car running low on gas or her needing to pee, disrupted her thoughts. She ought to—
A noise on the first floor.
Is there a cellar?
“A cellar dweller?”
She darted down the stairs, and out of the house. Lightning illuminated her car. Keeping her eyes on the spot where her dark blue 4-door blended with the night she raced across the yard to the road. Wet hands fumbled with the keys.
In too big of a hurry to get away she floored the gas pedal at the same time as she spun the wheel, first one way and then another, attempting to make a U-turn around mud-filled potholes. She slammed on the brake and shoved the gearshift in reverse. Nearly bald tires slid sideways over the slick surface, a rear tire spinning wildly in the mud and grass on the edge of the road. The engine stalled out. She jerked back reflexively over the sudden roar of raindrops and pea-size hail drumming on the roof.
