Volume Three: In Moonlight and Memories, #3

by Julie Ann Walker

  I hate that he was forced to do what he did. But there was no other option. Sullivan made it crystal clear it was him or us.

  Even still… This will weigh on Luc because he’s…well… Luc. And I wish there was a way I could relieve him of this burden. But I know there’s not. He’ll have to deal with this in his own way and in his own time.

  My thoughts sink into the cold ocean depths of despair as I plot a path toward Cash’s house. I have to tell him what’s happened. And even though I’d love nothing better than to go home, curl into bed, and put it all in a text message, since I’m without a cell phone, I find myself hanging a right on Royal Street, trudging on thousand-pound legs toward Orleans Avenue.

  The sun is rising between the buildings. It’s the golden hour. That time of day when the soft light seems to dull edges and blur lines and make everything look slightly otherworldly.

  An old woman on the corner rolls the bones between her gnarled hands. “Care to know your future, cher?” she calls in a crone’s crackling voice. “Come and see what da bones have in store for ya.”

  “I’d be afraid to find out, Mawmaw,” I tell her honestly, crossing the street to hand her one of the two coffees I’m carrying. “But have a café au lait to start your day right.”

  She accepts my offering gratefully, popping the top off the cup of joe and closing her eyes when the fragrant steam hits her face. “Thank ya, cher.”

  Her eyes, I notice, are as black as coal and as clear as day. They seem to see. Really see. Me. Things beyond this place and time. Or maybe, as I said, it’s simply the morning light making everything look otherworldly.

  Offering her a smile, I wave and slog up the sidewalk, passing the old-fashioned boutiques filled with things I don’t need, but that I usually can’t help buying.

  A leatherworking shop boasts hand-tooled masquerade masks that are more works of art than party favors. And Rouses, our local grocery store, has an accumulation of what we here in the Big Easy call urban campers milling around out front. They’re waiting for the day manager to come in and hand out the bakery bread left over from last night.

  There are five in the group. A black man with a jaunty bow tie and trousers with holes in the knees who goes by the name of Shortie. A Creole woman, whom everyone calls Doris, has a calico cat curled in her arms. There’s a young white kid I don’t recognize—he can’t be much older than twenty. And last but not least, there’s a couple with their heads together carrying on a soft conversation in a language that isn’t French, but sounds very much like it. They’re known around The Quarter as Mr. and Mrs. Porto.

  New Orleans is the melting pot that other places in America only claim to be, and I’ve gotten to know most of these folks from my time volunteering at the local soup kitchen. Auntie June always says the best way to stay humble is to help those less fortunate than ourselves.

  “Mornin’, Miss Maggie.” Shortie touches a finger to his brow.

  “Good morning, Shortie,” I answer back. “It’s a beautiful start to the day, but the weatherman’s calling for rain this evening. Y’all be sure you find a dry spot before it gets here.”

  “Got me a place near the Old Ursuline Convent that’s dry as the Sahara,” he assures me.

  I make a face and fake a shiver. “The Old Ursuline Convent? You’re not scared of those casket girls swooping in to suck your blood?”

  He grins, his teeth a remarkable shade of yellow. “They don’t want none of my blood, girlie. Too full of piss and vinegar.”

  I manage a laugh because that’s what he expects. And then I continue up the street, thinking of the local legend surrounding the imposing, French Colonial building on Ursulines Avenue.

  So the story goes, the French colonists who were first shipped here—mostly criminals, vagrants, and men of low character—were in want of wives. They petitioned their government to send over girls of marriageable age, and France, knowing a thriving colony needed families to settle the area, agreed.

  Some accounts say the girls sent here were fine, upstanding young women. Others claim they were orphans and prostitutes. But whoever they were, they boarded a ship and survived an arduous Atlantic crossing with all their worldly belongings packed away in wooden boxes called casquettes—or caskets.

  When the ship put into port, the men of the town gathered on the banks of the river, eager to welcome their newcome, would-be brides. But they were dismayed to find the girls gaunt and pale upon arrival. The priest and the nuns from Ursuline quickly shepherded the young women and their caskets to the convent, where they were supposed to remain until the nuns could arrange their marriages.

  So the story goes, what actually came over on that ship were not, in fact, girls, but vampires who ravaged the city before the nuns could lock them inside their caskets on the third floor of the convent. The sisters nailed shut the shutters on that floor and had the pope come over to bless the nails with the power of God, hoping, of course, that would keep the girls/vampires from escaping.

  Whether it’s all a ridiculous load of hogwash or not, I know this to be true: I’ve never seen those third-floor shutters open. And I swear, if you walk by the convent at night, there’s a malevolent buzz in the air and the fog sneaks along the ground like a living cloud.

  Then again…maybe that’s simply my imagination.

  Everyone says I have a tendency toward the fanciful. And perhaps that’s why I’m thinking of the casket girls now. My fanciful mind needs an escape from the dark reality of my current situation.

  I feel like Dumbledore has used his Deluminator on my life, sucking all the light out of it.

  Mr. Emerson—a longtime French Quarter resident—is sweeping his stoop. His features are sharp and oddly put together, like his face is made from the discard pile. He has a small, pointed nose paired with a big, jutting chin. His thick brow ridge is juxtaposed against the biggest, softest smile.

  He turns the latter on me, lifting his hand. “You’re up early today, Maggie!”

  “Good to see you, Mr. Emerson.” When I force a cheerful grin, my face feels fragile and crumbly. “Been a while since you came to visit me at the bar,” I scold him playfully.

  He lowers his voice and glances over his shoulder toward the front door. “Mrs. Emerson don’t like me going there. She claims Royal Earl gets me drunk.”

  “That’s because he does.”

  “Yeah, but it’s good to live a little now and again, don’t you think?” He winks. “I’ll stop by once Carnival season starts.”

  “I’ll hold you to it.” After I turn away, I let my face fall, and it’s a relief not to have to pretend everything is okay, that I’m okay, as I continue down the block.

  My eyes are so gritty I can barely keep them open, so I take a sip of the coffee I bought for Cash. The taste of the plain black brew makes me wince.

  How does he stand the stuff?

  Life is bitter enough all on its own. Our chosen libations certainly shouldn’t be.

  Trudging up the steps of his front stoop, I lift my hand, but hesitate before knocking. My mind turns back to the things I saw while standing in this exact spot last night. Was that only last night?

  I tell myself seeing him with Scarlet shouldn’t hurt. For months, he’s been trying to convince me all we can ever be is friends. And then there’s Luc. Luc and that amazing kiss that didn’t hold back a single thing and instead promised me the moon and stars.

  And yet it did hurt seeing Cash with Scarlet.

  Why is that? How is that?

  How can I want Luc and still have feelings for Cash?

  The edges of my thoughts are jagged and cutting, making me feel like I’m seconds away from bleeding out mentally. But none of that matters right now. Because Sullivan is dead, Luc’s in jail, and Cash is completely in the dark about all of it.

  Squaring my shoulders, I rap my knuckles against the door. In the light of day, I notice that Cash has stripped the paint from the wood, leaving the thick oak naked and ready for a new coat. It
glows a soft peachy cream.

  I wait to hear the sounds of footsteps coming from inside, cringing when it occurs to me those footsteps might belong to Scarlet. But the seconds tick by and…nothing.

  I knock again, harder this time, and press my ear against the door. Is it possible they’re in the back room and can’t hear me? Or maybe they’re in the shower together and—

  Nope. Not going there.

  “Cash!” I toss decorum aside, banging on the door with the side of my fist. “Open up! It’s Maggie! And it’s important!”

  The force of my blows sends pain radiating up my arm. That, combined with the past few hours, makes my head ache. Grabbing hold of the door handle, I no longer care about privacy, personal space, or walking in on Cash and Scarlet again.

  Luc needs me. Luc needs us.

  So screw it!

  The knob turns easily in my fist. I have got to talk to Cash about locking his dadgummed doors and—

  All thought screeches to a halt when I step inside and get hit with three things simultaneously. One, the place is dead quiet. No sounds of sex. No running water. Not even the whine and grind of power tools. Two, dust motes dance like fairies in the morning light streaming in through the front windows. And three… I smell blood.

  When I was young, my folks took me and my sister to Martinville to visit some of their friends from high school. La Grande Boucherie des Cajuns, a yearly festival in those parts, was going on down the street from our hosts’ house.

  Vee and I begged to be allowed to go see what all the music and laughing and carrying-on was about, visions of cotton candy, pony rides, and balloon animals in our heads. But our mother forbade us, saying, “Y’all stay right here in this backyard and play on that old tire swing until your daddy and I call you in for supper, you hear?”

  We nodded solemnly. But as soon as the screen door slammed shut, Vee turned to me, an ornery sparkle in her eye—this was back when she gave in to her more rebellious urges—and said, “Let’s go see what we see.”

  At eight years old, I idolized her and thought every idea that popped out of her head was pure genius. So I ignored the small inner voice that whispered a warning, telling me we were likely to get caught, and if we did, Momma would tan our hides.

  I went with Vee down the street toward the sounds of the festivities. I can still remember skipping along, hand in hand, singing “Say My Name” by Destiny’s Child at the tops of our lungs.

  Like pint-sized thieves, we slipped onto the festival grounds, giggling with glee that we were pulling off such a daring caper. As we darted between tents and vendors, our bellies rumbled, but not because of the sweet smell of cotton candy. The far more hearty aromas of cracklin and boudin filled the air.

  Then an altogether different aroma burrowed up our noses, reminding me of the times Daddy opened packages of ground beef for grilling hamburger patties. It was metallic and raw. It smelled like a nosebleed tasted.

  “Vee.” I dug my heels into the soft, loamy soil. “I don’t think we should—”

  That’s as far as I got. We rounded a corner and saw…it.

  The scene.

  The death.

  The mutilation.

  A big, bearded man stood over a wooden block. Atop that block was the body of a pig. And the meat cleaver in the man’s hand flashed in the light dappling through the trees as he brought the blade down on the beast with a resounding thwack!

  Years later I learned La Grande Boucherie des Cajuns celebrates the Cajun tradition of communal hog butchering. But at the time, I was transfixed by the sight of that pig’s lifeless black eyes and all that blood. It spilled over the side of the butcher block, staining the man’s shoes and soaking into the ground.

  The smell of that day stuck with me, imprinted itself on my olfactory nerves. I’ve never mistaken the scent of blood since. Not that night in the swamp with Dean unmoving and heavy atop me. Not last night after what Sullivan forced Luc to do.

  And not now.

  “Cash!” His name is ripped from the back of my throat by the force of my fear.

  I scan the room. Searching. Searching. Then I see him, and the floor beneath my feet drops away. My heart follows it in a lightning-fast descent. And the coffee cup slips from my hand to explode against the sanded wood planks.

  I’m not sure how I make it to his side. Maybe I flew here. But I’m instantly down on my knees, reaching a shaky hand toward him.

  He’s faceup on the floor, still in last night’s clothes. His arms and legs are akimbo. But it’s the blood that has me transfixed.

  There’s so much of it. Too much of it.

  Don’t be dead. Don’t be dead. Don’t be dead!

  I touch his cheek, beyond relieved to find it warm.

  Carefully turning his head, I get a look at the gash that’s causing all the trouble. It’s deep, reaching from the top arch of his eyebrow all the way to the raised scar above his temple. It oozes sluggishly, slowly adding to the pool already collected around his head like a macabre halo.

  “Come on, Cash.” I pinch his cheek. “Wake up.”

  Not a whimper. Not a groan.

  I can barely breathe as I press two fingers to the side of his neck, and then I fall onto my butt in relief when I feel the solid thud of his heart.

  “Oh, thank you, Lord!”

  My gaze snags on the big silver picture frame I gave him for Christmas. It’s lying three feet away. One corner is covered in blood, and the glass is splintered into a spider web of glinting shards.

  Obviously, that was the weapon. But why? How? Who would do this? Scarlet?

  “Cash?” I say again, gently shaking his shoulder.

  He moans softly, but his eyes remain shut.

  Automatically reaching into my pocket, I come up empty-handed. Gah! No cell phone thanks to the drunk from last night.

  Jumping up, I race for the door. Then I skid to a stop when a flash of black on the mantel snags my attention.

  Cash’s cell phone!

  Lunging for it, I swallow a scream of frustration when the security screen lights up. What the heck would he choose for a combination? His birthday? Nada. Luc’s birthday? Again, no joy. My birthday? Still nothing.

  “Dang it!” I swear, ready to toss it aside and run to the neighbor’s house. Then I realize it’s an iPhone X. It has facial-recognition software.

  Darting back to Cash, I hold the phone to his face. The stupid device remains stubbornly locked.

  What am I doing wrong?

  I feel the seconds ticking away. Seconds when more life-sustaining blood oozes from his head. Seconds when swelling inside his skull could be putting pressure on his brain.

  I figure I’ll give it one more shot. With a trembling hand, I wipe away as much of the blood from the side of his face as I can. It’s hot and tacky, and the smell makes my nostrils flare. Then I hold the phone up to his face, and this time…

  Hallelujah!

  Dialing 911, I grab Cash’s hand and hold it tight as I wait impatiently for the operator to answer. When he does, I rattle off Cash’s condition and go on for too long about the amount of blood.

  “Slow down, ma’am,” the dispatcher says. “Do you know where you are? The address?”

  My mind blanks.

  Here’s the thing about living in the Vieux Carré. Most houses are known by names like the Hermann-Grima House or the Beauregard-Keys House—or in the case of my apartment, the place above the spice shop on St. Louis Street. I have no idea what Cash’s actual address is.

  “I-I—” I stutter, completely discombobulated. Then I shake my head and explain which block we’re on. “Look for the Creole cottage with the red shutters and the newly sanded front door. And please, hurry!”

  The operator stays on the call with me, asking questions I think I answer, giving me instructions I think I follow. But through it all, I’m not paying that much attention. I’m too busy making deals with the universe.

  Like, if Cash is okay, I’ll never break the speed lim
it again. Never eat a test grape at the grocery store before deciding whether to buy the bunch. Never log on to Mr. and Mrs. Monroe’s Wi-Fi when mine goes down.

  I realize I’m sobbing when the dispatcher says, “Calm down, ma’am. I can hear sirens in the background. Help will be there soon.”

  Sure enough. The loud woo-woo-woo of an ambulance breaks through the quiet of The Quarter. Barely a minute later, two paramedics burst through the open front door with a stretcher and medical gear in hand.

  After that, there’s a lot of action and noise. When Cash has been carried outside to the waiting ambulance, I jump in behind him and watch as the paramedics hook him up to lines and machines. Never before have I felt so helpless.

  The only thing I know to do is take his hand—in case there’s some portion of his unconscious mind that registers my presence—and pray.

  Please Lord, don’t take him from me. Don’t take either of them from me.

  Chapter Sixty-seven

  ______________________________________

  Luc

  In life, there are moments that matter. Moments that change everything.

  Last night is one of those for me.

  The question is, will it change my life for better or worse? The not knowing is where the fear lies. The not having any idea if, best-case scenario, no charges are brought against me since it was a matter of self-defense, and Maggie and I can finally crawl out from under the shadow of Dean’s death and Sullivan’s threats. Or, worst-case scenario, Sullivan’s grasp on the NOLA Police Department (and his particular brand of corruption) is strong enough to see me charged and tried for murder regardless of any laws that would otherwise see me blameless.

  Crossing my arms, I rest my head against the cold, concrete wall, block out the astringent smell of bleach (which doesn’t do much to cover up the more pungent odors of piss and flop sweat) and imagine I’m out in the home of dirt roads and bare feet.