Volume Three: In Moonlight and Memories, #3

by Julie Ann Walker

  If I concentrate, I can almost smell the dry, woodsy scent of Spanish moss mixed with the earthy aroma of lichen. I can almost see the night jasmine blooming. Hear the crickets chirping their mournful tune.

  I perfected this skill in Afghanistan.

  It could be as cold and miserable as a well-digger’s ass in those mountains, but I could always close my eyes and put myself deep in the bayou. In one of those places where the sun never shines. Where thick, cool shadows linger all year long. Where the gators lurk hungrily and—

  “You’re up, asshole,” the officer who booked me and swabbed my hands for gunshot residue calls from outside my holding cell. “Good luck seeing if your lawyer can help you, you murderous prick. ’Cause sure as shit, no one in this department will.”

  It was clear right from the get-go that Officer Florer was one of Sullivan’s lackeys. Also clear was that he speaks two languages, English and Threat, and neither one all that well.

  “Back up real slow like and put your hands through the bars so I can cuff ya.”

  He has his hand on the butt of his weapon. It’s laughable since I’m stuck inside a jail cell wearing nothing but a pair of orange scrubs and gray slippers. What’s he reckon I’m aiming to do? Insult him to death?

  I walk over to the wall of bars slowly, like he asked, and turn to thread my hands through an opening. The cold kiss of steel against my wrists feels like an assault. But even when Officer Florer tightens the cuffs until my fingers go numb, I don’t say a word.

  He’s looking for a reason to get nasty.

  I’m not stupid enough to give him one.

  A mighty clang heralds the unlocking of the door, and Florer swings the barred opening wide. With one hand on my shoulder and the other on my cuffs, he frog-marches me past the front room where the sounds of the jailhouse invade my ears.

  A weary prostitute waiting to be booked complains loudly that she needs a smoke break and something to eat. A drunk is slurringly trying to convince an intake officer that he wasn’t behind the wheel of his truck when it ran into the front of the dry cleaners. “I’s ssssleepin’ it off in the passenger seat and musta assident—ackidon—accidentally hit the parkin’ brake.” And a dozen ringing phones jockey for attention.

  Taking a right leads us away from the chaos and down a long hall with doors on either side. About halfway, Florer yanks on my shoulder.

  “Stop here,” he commands.

  He has a gap between his two bottom teeth that causes him to whistle slightly when he talks. As he fumbles with the door handle while keeping a firm hold on my cuffs, I note again the restlessness of his hands. They’re always gesturing. Always moving.

  To my way of thinking, that’s an indication of an anxious, unstable mind.

  “Ya got half an hour,” he announces as soon as he has the door open.

  “On the contrary.” The welcome sound of David Abelman’s voice echoes from inside the room. “I’ll take as much time as I need with my client.”

  Florer gives me a shove into the interview room and goes to close the door behind me.

  “Excuse me, Officer.” Abelman lifts a finger. “Kindly uncuff Master Sergeant Dubois before you leave.”

  It’s not an accident, him using my rank. Abelman is not-so-subtly reminding Florer of my superiority in the overall pecking order of persons who’ve sacrificed for the greater good of our country. Hooah!

  “He’s already killed one cop tonight,” Florer snaps. “I’m thinkin’ the rest of us here who wear a badge will feel a lot more comfortable if he stays cuffed.”

  Abelman remains unruffled. In fact, his slow blink is that of a man who’s either bored out of his mind or looking at someone he considers severely lacking in the area of IQ points.

  “I care little about your comfort, Officer Florer,” he says. “But if it makes you feel better, you can cuff him to the table bar.”

  Beneath his breath, Florer says something not terribly kind about Abelman, but uncuffs one of my hands. As soon as the steel vise is released, blood floods into my fingertips, bringing pins and needles with it. After Florer attaches the empty cuff to the bar in the middle of the table, I take the seat opposite my attorney.

  Abelman is dressed in a natty gray suit paired with a striped blue tie. His hair is parted in a severe line. The combination of salt and pepper makes him look older than I reckon he is, because there’s a certain youthfulness about his eyes when he looks me over.

  I can’t tell if he’s assessing me for signs of police brutality, for indications that the trauma of last night might have sent me into shock, or what.

  Then his gaze alights on my still-cuffed hand. Again, he stops Florer from leaving.

  “In case you haven’t noticed,” he says to the officer, “my client’s fingers are turning a rather astonishing shade of blue. I’m sure securing the cuffs too tight was a mistake on your part, since doing so intentionally would force me to file charges against—”

  “Like you said,” Florer cuts him off, stomping back to the table. “A simple mistake.”

  He loosens the handcuff, and glory be! Now I can feel all ten of my fingers!

  “Will there be anything else?” Florer grinds his teeth so hard around the question that his cheek muscles twitch.

  “No. That will be all.” Abelman dismisses him by pulling a leather portfolio from his satchel.

  Florer slams the door with more force than necessary. The noise is still echoing around the room when Abelman gets right down to business. (My kind of guy.) “Besides the cuffs being too tight, have you suffered any—”

  “No,” I interrupt. “No abuse. Just some not-so-subtle threats. How’s Maggie May?”

  He opens his portfolio and pulls out a pad of legal paper. “She’s fine. Shaken and tired and a bit shocky, but she’s a tough one.”

  “Don’t I know it.” My chest swells. I’m pretty sure I can hear the chambers of my heart expanding with love for her.

  “She gave her statement—”

  “Which you were there for, yeah?” I cut in again, having insisted that Abelman act as Maggie’s counsel before turning his attention to me. I have about six dozen things to worry about, but damned if I’ll let Maggie getting charged with anything (like being an accessory to a crime) be one of them.

  “Yes.” Abelman nods briskly. “I was there for her through it all. The police have released her pending further questioning after they’ve had the chance to interview you.”

  I sit back as far as my cuffed arm will allow and squeeze my eyes closed.

  Maggie’s out. She’s free.

  The knots in my shoulders loosen.

  When I open my eyes again, I drink in the pale, golden light shining like flashlight beams through the bars of the lone window placed high on the wall at Abelman’s back. The sun is up. The world is turning. Life goes on.

  There’s comfort in that.

  Beside my lawyer, a paper cup of coffee sends delicate wisps of steam into the air. Abelman sees the direction of my gaze and pushes the coffee my way.

  “It’s all yours,” he says, and I don’t turn down his offer.

  Taking a quick swallow, I welcome the warmth and the kick of caffeine that livens up my bloodstream. I’ve spent plenty of nights in uncomfortable spots. The time I got lost in the bayou and had to sleep in the bottom of my pirogue with the skeeters doing their best to eat me alive comes to mind. As does the time Cash and I got cut off from our unit and had to spend a night huddled together in a mountain cave with the icy wind blowing in and cutting us clean in half. But nothing compares to a jail cell.

  I don’t know if it’s the hard surfaces, or the oppressive sense that comes with a lack of freedom, but I didn’t get a wink of sleep.

  Of course, most of that was on account of my worry for Maggie. As the hours ticked by, I couldn’t stop thinking about what she was going through inside some airless interrogation room. And I almost convinced myself that everything would have been so much better if she’d stayed in t
he city instead of coming to visit me last night.

  I say almost convinced, because no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make myself regret that kiss. It was…everything. All I’ve ever dreamed.

  And more.

  “Let’s talk about you.” Abelman flips to a fresh sheet of paper and clicks a ballpoint pen. “Evidence has been collected from the scene. The body. Both weapons. The bullet in the side of your house. The GSR on Sullivan’s hand as well as the GSR on yours. Given all of that, along with Miss Carter’s corroborating statements, it’s going to be difficult for any prosecutor to find a way to bring charges against you.”

  He goes on to say, “The current self-defense laws in our great state of Louisiana clearly establish that deadly force can be legally used against any person who is threatening to kill you or do great bodily harm to you. Add that to the castle laws that allow you to protect your property and the stand-your-ground laws that don’t obligate you to retreat when you’re threatened, and this should be an open-and-shut case.”

  “Should be?” I pin him with a searching look.

  His frown is sour. “This is the superintendant of the New Orleans Police Department we’re talking about. And the case is being investigated by his own rank and file.”

  And there it is. My biggest worry voiced aloud.

  “I don’t know about you,” I tell him, “but my confidence in ’em giving me a fair shake is about as thin as an eggshell.”

  “Which is why I’ve filed a motion to have all the evidence sent to an outside lab where it will be examined by a neutral third party.”

  “You think you’ll get the green light for that?”

  “I know I will. The judge I filed with is unassailable, ethical and as fair-minded as they come. He hasn’t let me down yet.”

  I grunt, reassured by my choice in attorneys.

  “But that doesn’t mean the boys in blue won’t still try to throw up every roadblock they can,” he cautions me. “If they can’t pin Sullivan’s death on you, they might try to come after you for not reporting Dean’s death ten years ago. Although, technically, in our state, failing to report a death isn’t a crime. Or, they might try to say that keeping what you knew of his death a secret when you were questioned by the police all those years ago somehow skews into the area of obstructing justice. But again, that’s a stretch.”

  I nod. After so long, it’s a relief to hear Dean’s death talked about in such open and honest terms. To have the truth out there once and for all. My daddy always said that, like a big ol’ bayou gator, you don’t have to defend the truth. Let it loose, and it’ll defend itself.

  If I’d been brave enough to take his advice when I was eighteen, maybe none of this would’ve happened. Or maybe Sullivan would’ve manipulated the evidence and who knows what would’ve become of me and Maggie?

  That’s the thing about second-guesses. They’re still only guesses.

  “But for now,” Abelman continues, “I don’t want you to think about the future. I want you to think about the past. I need you to tell me what happened last night and see how your recollection of events stacks up against Miss Carter’s.”

  For the next hour, we rehash every second of my confrontation with George Sullivan. And then, once we’re done, we go over it again. Finally, to my great relief, Abelman sits back, drops his pen atop his legal pad, and flexes his fingers.

  “Good.” He nods with clear satisfaction. “Your story aligns perfectly with Miss Carter’s.”

  “Funny how that happens when both people are telling the truth,” I mutter.

  Abelman checks the time on his watch. “The detective who’s been assigned to work your case will be in soon to question you. Stick to what you’ve told me, and we shouldn’t have any problems.”

  “After I answer his questions, will I be free to go?”

  Abelman’s frown has my hopes plummeting. “Doubtful. I suspect they’ll hold you on suspicion of homicide. And given it’s a holiday, it’ll probably take me a day or two to get you in front of a judge for an arraignment hearing.”

  That’s right. It is a holiday, isn’t it?

  What a truly messed up way to start the new year.

  Chapter Sixty-eight

  ______________________________________

  Maggie

  Airports see more kisses than wedding chapels, and hospitals hear more prayers than churches.

  I read that somewhere once, and as I sit in an uncomfortable plastic chair in a private hospital room, waiting for Cash to return from yet another set of scans, I know it’s true. It’s been hours since we arrived here. I haven’t stopped praying since.

  I’ve even appealed to Saint Roch a few times. It can’t hurt, right? And seeing as how he and Cash are on speaking terms, maybe it might actually help.

  The lone window in the room frames clouds the color of an old metal bucket. A hard breeze rattles the fronds of a palmetto tree outside, but I hear the soft sound only in my head. In reality, the chaos of the hospital accosts my ears.

  At the nurses’ station, three efficient-looking women in various shades of pastel scrubs talk animatedly about something I can’t make out. A patient in a hospital gown and rubber-soled socks shuffles by, the squeak-buzz-squeak of the wheels on his rolling IV stand sounds like a dentist’s drill, making me wince. And then there’s the constant beep and shush of machines doing God only knows what to God only knows who.

  I poke my head into the hall when I hear a familiar voice. I explained to the doctors here at Tulane Medical Center that Cash was under the care of Dr. Beckett at the VA. Now the man himself is here. He’s walking beside the physician who’s been taking care of Cash. I can catch only snatches of their conversation.

  “…Sergeant Armstrong’s transfer is…”

  “…I’ll speak to Miss Carter myself…”

  “…always a shame in someone so young…”

  The Tulane doctor peels off to chat with a nurse, but Dr. Beckett continues my way. When he sees me turkey-peeking around the corner, he smiles and adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses.

  I meet him in the hall, twisting my fingers anxiously. “I didn’t know if having them call you was the right thing to do, but I thought—”

  “It was exactly the right thing to do,” he assures me, placing a comforting hand on my arm. “Let’s talk.” He gently turns me back into the stark white room with its gadgets on the walls and its narrow door leading to a bathroom the size of a shoebox. “Have a seat,” he indicates the chair I vacated.

  “Have you seen Cash?” I ask. “He hasn’t regained consciousness in all these hours, and the doctors won’t tell me anything because I’m not his next of kin. A nurse tried to shoo me away earlier, but I gave her a look that said I’d force-feed her the rotting testicles of a dead donkey before I’d step one foot out of this room, and she wisely let me stay.”

  Beckett smiles. “I’ve just come from him. He’s awake and talking and—”

  “Oh, thank God!” I cover my face with my hands and promptly burst into tears.

  I like to think of myself as a tough nut. Someone who’s learned how to roll with the punches. But I’m going on thirty-six hours of no sleep. I’ve been held at gunpoint, watched a man die rather violently, been questioned by the police for what seemed like an eternity, and found someone I love unconscious and bleeding.

  It’s all caught up with me.

  Beckett doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, graciously allowing me time to get it all out. When I’m reduced to sniffles, he hands me a tissue and quietly continues, “Sergeant Armstrong has a moderate to severe concussion. That, along with the amount of alcohol and painkillers in his system, is what caused his extended LOC.”

  At my watery look of confusion, he shakes his head and says, “Sorry. That means loss of consciousness.”

  “But he’s okay now?” My heart is hammering so hard I’m afraid it might break through the cage of my ribs and fall onto the floor. I guess the good news is, if it does, I’m i
n a hospital. They can put it back where it belongs, right?

  “Well, like I said, he’s suffering from a concussion. And that on top of his…uh…condition isn’t ideal. But, yes, he’s okay. He seems to have his faculties about him. I’m having him transferred to the VA, where I can keep an eye on him over the next couple of days.”

  “Good.” I nod. “Okay.” I’m flooded with so much relief I almost forget to ask the question that’s been plaguing me since I found Cash bloodied and unconscious. “Did he say who did this to him?”

  “He claims it was his father.”

  “No.” I jerk my chin side to side. “Richard Armstrong is in jail.”

  “It’s not unusual for a person who’s suffered a blow to the head to get things confused,” Beckett says with a frown. “Once Sergeant Armstrong is settled in at the VA he can give his statement to the police. We’ll have to leave it to them to find out what actually happened. In the meantime, why don’t you go on home and get some rest?”

  You look like a can of smashed buttholes.

  He doesn’t say this last part. But I hear it hanging in the air between us.

  “I’m going with you and Cash to the VA,” I tell him, bringing back my rotting-donkey-balls expression.

  His smile is kind when he nods. “Okay. I need to finish filling out some paperwork here and then we’ll be on our way.”

  He presses a reassuring hand against my shoulder on his way from the room, and then I’m left alone to stare out the window again. The weatherman was right. A soft drizzle is falling against the single pane of glass, sliding in haphazard rivulets that join and diverge.

  Cash’s father? Is it possible?

  I know one person who would know.

  Pulling Cash’s phone from my back pocket, I hold it up and watch it automatically unlock. After realizing I’d need to rely on his phone as my only means of communication—and in between orderlies wheeling him from the room for various scans and tests—I used his face to unlock the phone, get into his settings, and reset the face ID so his phone recognizes me. It was then I remembered that I could have simply used the emergency option on his phone this morning instead of struggling with the face ID. Apparently, I’m not very calm or coherent in a crisis. But I suppose all’s well that ends well.