23

“The alligator roaring after I went out the window . . . that was me,” Teddy said, taking another sip of iced tea.

“It certainly made Roy think you’d been eaten,” Kit said, scratching Lucky under the chin and withholding the admission that she, too, had believed it.

After their rescue, Kit and Teddy had been taken to the hospital, where they were given a thorough physical examination and Teddy’s burns had been treated. Concerned that they’d been exposed to the virus, David Seymour checked them for tick bites and samples of their blood had been sent to Blackledge for viral analysis.

While waiting for the results on their blood test, the public health people thought it best that they both be socially isolated, a decision Kit welcomed, as she was in no mood to talk to anyone, not even Teddy. So they’d remained apart.

In her time alone, which Kit spent in her own house, she fulfilled a fantasy she’d had in the shack, taking the longest shower of her life. Afterward, she’d slept for twenty-four hours straight, so exhausted not even the specter of hemorrhagic fever disturbed her slumber. She’d been awakened by the telephone, bringing news that there was no sign of the virus in either her blood or Teddy’s. Nor was Roy or Larry infected.

Free now to have visitors, she’d agreed to receive them, even though she still felt too shattered to be sharing herself. The still-vivid memory of being forced to live for days without changing clothes or bathing and that supremely humiliating moment in the shack had dictated Kit’s attire, turning her from her usual slacks and blouse in favor of a paisley print red silk dress with an English tan belt and matching Italian calfskin pumps. At her throat was a double-linked gold necklace; at her ears, ruby earrings. And still she felt dirty and unattractive.

She looked at Bubba. “If you hadn’t arrived when you did, I’d be dead. What can I possibly say to express my thanks?”

Bubba blushed and studied the ice in his tea. “You could say you’re not mad at me for gettin’ your rabbit dirty.”

“I’m sure it can be cleaned.”

Bubba looked up and grinned—a Cheshire cat with a bushy black beard.

“I heard there was an envelope attached to the rabbit,” Phil Gatlin said. “What was inside?”

“Nothin’. We weren’ plannin’ on lettin’ anybody get close enough to open it.”

“Clever.”

Bubba looked at Kit. “But it was Gramma O who tol’ me you needed help right away. She should get da credit.”

Kit turned to Grandma O, whose dress practically covered the upholstered chair in which she was sitting. “How did you know?”

“Cookin’ ain’t my only talent.”

“I can sure vouch for that.”

“Which reminds me, it’s time Ah got back to da restaurant. No tellin’ what kin’ of goofy things dat knucklehead who’s been runnin’ it for me has been up to.”

She rose from her chair, bringing everyone else in the room to their feet. Losing the lap he was in, Lucky jumped to the floor.

“Kit, honey, you come by and Ah’ll cook you somethin’ special to make you forget what you been through. An’, Teddy, dat goes for you, too.” She looked at Gatlin. “You ain’t been through anything, so you got to eat from da menu.”

Kit saw Grandma O and Bubba to the door, kissed both on the cheek, and fondly watched them cross the courtyard and disappear into the parking alcove. When she returned to the living room, Gatlin and Teddy were still standing.

“When do you think Andy will be able to have visitors?” she said to Gatlin.

“I think he can have them now. There’s no longer any sign of virus in his blood and he’s awake and talking . . . still weak, of course, but coming right along.”

Kit felt an intense longing to see and touch the old curmudgeon, partly to comfort him, but also to seek his help in finding herself again.

“I know your parents are gonna be here any minute and you’re anxious to see them,” Gatlin said, “but I’d like to ask you a few questions before they arrive.”

“Of course.”

“Andy traced the kidnappers to the warehouse where you were being held—by some metal specks he found on the body of a strangulation victim that was dumped on Frenchmen Street. He also found a wrapper from a lemon ball he gave you in the victim’s pants cuff. Did you actually witness that murder?”

“Yes. It was Roy. He strangled him with his belt. The body fell right on top of me.”

“Did you see Roy shoot Nick Lawson?”

“Nick Lawson . . . This is the first time I’ve heard about him.”

“He was shot in front of the warehouse shortly before the kidnappers took you two and fled. In fact, he may be the reason you all were gone when we arrived.”

“I did hear a shot just before Roy came in and said we were leaving. How is he? Lawson, I mean. He’s not . . .”

Gatlin swished the thought away with a wave of this big hand. “Naw. Like most of life’s irritants, he’ll be back.”

“What was he doing there?”

“Thinking about trying to rescue you.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of the bell at the front gate. Going to the door and seeing her parents on the TV monitor, Kit buzzed them in.

Her mother came out of the parking alcove first. When she saw Kit, she froze and her hands went to her face. Over her fingers, she drank Kit in, then, crying, she ran to her and wrapped her in her arms, enveloping her in the aroma of Red Door and cigarette smoke. Over her mother’s shoulder, Kit saw her father, handsome as ever, hurrying across the courtyard, a grin on his face.

“We were so worried,” her mother said into Kit’s left ear. “At first, they said you might be ill and then that you’d been kidnapped.”

Kit’s father arrived and, being unable to get any closer because of her mother, cupped the back of Kit’s head and rubbed it. Her mother drew back and looked at her. “Did they hurt you?”

Of course they hurt her. . . . She hurt still. But that wasn’t what her parents wanted to hear. “I’m fine. It’s over and I just want to put it behind me.”

“Kitten . . . they didn’t . . . force themselves on you, did they?” Howard asked. “Sexually, I mean.” A faint flush spread over his face. It was the first time in Kit’s entire life that he’d brought sex into a conversation with her. “Because I’d kill them if they did.”

She reached up and laid her palm against his cheek, which was hot to her touch. “No, Daddy. They didn’t. And one is already dead. Teddy shot him.”

“Then I’d like to shake his hand.”

“Well, you can—he’s inside.”

They all went into the house and Kit took her parents back to where she’d left Gatlin and Teddy.

“I guess you both know Lieutenant Gatlin,” Kit said.

They said they did.

“Kit tells us you shot one of the kidnappers,” Howard said to Teddy.

“I’m not proud of it, but he gave me no choice.”

“I’ll be proud for you,” Howard said, extending his hand. Somewhat reluctantly, Teddy shook it.

When he’d first met Beverly, Gatlin had been struck by her resemblance to Kit. Now, as they stood side by side, he was reminded of that.

Kit offered her parents a glass of tea, but both declined. They did accept seats on the Russian settee.

“So these guys were parrot smugglers,” Howard said to Gatlin.

Gatlin nodded. “Retail value of the birds we found was around two hundred K.”

“Do you know for a fact my brother Jack was involved in that?” Beverly asked, leaning forward.

“Larry, the kidnapper we’ve got locked up, says Jack was the leader of it. The buyer up north had apparently paid him twenty-five thousand down when the birds arrived, the balance to be paid when the buyer arrived for the pickup.”

“That must have been the money Roy and Larry thought Jack gave me,” Kit said. “Though I still have no idea why they believed that. Did the money ever show up?”

“We think it got spread around to the captain and crew of the Schrader.”

“If he was involved in the smuggling, why wasn’t there any glitter stuck in the sludge on the soles of his shoes?” Kit asked.

“He was the idea man,” Gatlin said. “He left all the physical work to Roy and Larry. He never set foot in the warehouse.”

“Surely Jack wasn’t part of the kidnapping,” Beverly said.

“No, he wasn’t. That was Roy’s idea, the one Teddy shot.”

Gatlin watched relief spread across Beverly’s face as she leaned back on the settee. “Larry’s being very cooperative. He gave the fish and wildlife people the name of the buyer up north who contracted for the birds and the middlemen involved in the smuggling operation.”

“Sounds like you’ve got it all wrapped up,” Howard observed.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Gatlin agreed. “But there is one thing that’s been bothering me.”

“What’s that?” Howard said.

Gatlin looked at Beverly. “Mrs. Franklyn, you don’t have a brother.”

The blood drained from Beverly’s face, leaving it the color of skim milk. She stood, wringing her hands, her eyes darting around the room. Howard, too, rose and put his arm around her shoulder, his brow worried.

All this brought Kit to the edge of the tiger-striped chair where she sat.

Howard leaned down and gently said to Beverly, “We’ve got to tell her.”

Her face an emotional collage, Beverly looked at Kit.

“We have to,” Howard repeated.

Now Kit got up. “What, Mother? What is it?”

Beverly turned to Gatlin, a tiny muscle at the corner of her mouth twitching. “I . . . Everything I told you was true except the parts about him being my brother and stealing from my parents. I gave you his real name and where he was living the last time I heard from him. . . . That’s all you needed. I was sure he didn’t have anything to do with Kit’s disappearance, but even if he did, you didn’t need to know the other. . . . It wasn’t anything that would help you find her. And I couldn’t tell you that because . . . when she came back to us, she’d . . .” Beverly looked at Kit.

“Mother, what are you talking about?”

“Jack was—” Beverly began, but her hands went to her face and she moaned into them. Her breathing grew heavy and ragged.

Howard reached out and took Kit’s hand. “Kitten, Jack was your father.”

Kit heard the words but thought it was a joke. She looked from face to face for a suppressed smile, a too-innocent expression, anything to support her belief this was a prank in monstrously poor taste. But she found no such evidence.

“We should have told you, I know,” Beverly pleaded. “But at first you were too young to understand. Then, when you were older, it seemed like we’d waited too long.”

Shivering, Kit pulled her hand from Howard’s grasp and hugged herself with both arms.

“Please, Kitten, try to understand,” Howard said.

“Jack was so irresponsible,” Beverly said. “We never had any money because he was always losing what we had on wild get-rich-quick schemes. And he’d disappear for days at a time, telling me only that he couldn’t be caged. It was one thing when it was just the two of us, but then you came and I told him he’d have to change . . . that I wasn’t going to have you doing without because of him. But he didn’t change. So when you were three months old, I threw him out. And a short time later, I met Howard.”

“Who named me Kitten?”

“Jack,” Beverly said.

“Did he ever write to me?”

“I’ve received only three letters from him since you were born, all of them many years ago, and all requesting money.”

“And he never asked about me?”

“He did ask each time.”

“Did you send him the money he wanted?”

Beverly averted her eyes. “Yes . . . but only with the understanding that he never try to contact you.”

“Does biology really matter all that much?” Howard said. “I’m the one who loved you . . . the one who pushed your carriage and wallpapered your room . . . made you kites and bought you dolls . . . the one who showed your report card to the other employees down at the bank. I kissed your bruises and worried about the boys you dated. You are my daughter and have been for all but a tiny part of your life.”

Kit stared at Beverly and Howard, seeing them almost as strangers. Finally, she said, “A lie . . . my whole life is a lie. I’m not who I thought I was and neither are you.”

“We’re all the same, baby,” Beverly said, tears welling in her eyes, “Nothing has changed.”

“Everything has changed,” Kit shouted. “I trusted you and you betrayed me.”

“Kitten, please,” Howard said, reaching out for her.

“Please leave . . . now.”

Kit turned and ran from the room, Lucky at her heels. It was too much. After what she’d just been through, this was too much.

Gatlin, too, was surprised at Beverly’s admission. If he’d known that’s who Jack was, he’d have handled things differently for Kit’s sake. When the time was right, he’d apologize. For now, he’d just leave with the Franklyns.

Kit went to her bedroom, shut the door, and threw herself across the bed, feeling as though everything beneath her skin had been scooped out of her. With Lucky stretched out beside her, his chin on the bedspread, she lay there, her mind filled with white noise, too frightened and confused to turn it off.

There was a tapping on the door and Teddy came in and joined her on the bed. Needing him as she never had before, she sat up and threw herself into his arms.

Teddy held her for a while, then separated from her so he could look into her eyes.

“I know this is a lousy time for this, but it’s been in the back of my mind from the moment I realized we both might die. And since this seems to be the day for truth telling . . .” He drew a deep breath. “That friend of mine who owns this house . . . There is no friend. I own it.”

Kit’s jaw dropped. “You own it? How is that possible? When Roy checked your bank account, it was as depleted as mine.”

“That was only one of my accounts. I’m a bit better off than you’ve been thinking. In fact, I guess you could say a lot better off—okay . . . wealthy. I knew you needed a place to stay and were hurting financially after selling your house and I also knew you’d never accept this house as a gift or rent it from me at a bargain price. So I made up the story I told you. I just wanted to help.”

What little fabric still remained of Kit’s life unraveled. “Get out,” she screamed. “Get out.”

Sensing he should take Kit’s side, but confused because the target of Kit’s anger was old Teddy, Lucky managed a few half-formed barks that sounded like brrrf.

Teddy slowly got off the bed. “There was no malice in this. Can’t you see that?”

Lurching to her feet, Kit pushed him toward the door.

“Kit . . .”

She pushed him again.

Stumbling under her onslaught, he threw open the door and escaped.

BROUSSARD HELPED HIMSELF TO one of the lemon balls Guy Minoux had brought by a half hour earlier and he tucked it into his cheek. He was not feeling so chipper he could get up and go home, but he was well enough to have finished the L’Amour novel he’d found at the parking lot and which Phil Gatlin had picked up and delivered to him. But now, boredom was beginning to set in, so it was with more than his usual enthusiasm that he received his mail, which Charlie Franks had sent up and which the nurse had just given him.

On top of the pile was an envelope the size and shape of a card, addressed in a flowing feminine hand to him in his hospital room. He tore it open, briefly admired the glossy reproduction of a Dutch flower painting on the front, and turned to the inside, where to his surprise there was a lengthy message.

Dear Dr. Broussard,

I was so pleased to hear you are recovering from your recent illness. You no doubt are aware that the antibodies that made your recovery possible were provided by Dr. Mark Blackledge, who received them from a colleague in another state. What you probably do not know is he was forced into a trade by what I can only describe as a selfish individual who puts his own welfare above even the life of others. This man, whom I shall not name, demanded that in return for the antibodies you were given, Dr. Blackledge give him the remaining antibodies to a rare viral protein it took Dr. Blackledge three years to make, and will take another three years to replace, severely damaging his research and putting a considerable portion of his funding at risk. I am sure Dr. Blackledge would be furious at me for telling you this, but I felt that such generosity should not go unnoticed. Please don’t tell him about this card.

Iva Eastman, Administrative Assistant,
Tulane Center for Viral Studies

Broussard was replacing the card in its envelope when the door opened.

“Hello stranger,” Kit said. “Come here often?”

“Second time this year, so it sure seems that way,” Broussard replied, his pleasure at seeing her openly displayed.

Kit walked over and took his hand. “I hear you had a rough time.”

“Guess we both did. I can see you’re physically okay. But how’s the head?”

“Not good.”

She was about to pour her story out to him when the door opened and a male voice said, “Well, you’re looking a lot better than the last time I saw you.”

“Feelin’ better, too,” Broussard replied.

Mark Blackledge approached the opposite side of the bed from where Kit stood.

“Do you two know each other?” Broussard said.

“Haven’t had the pleasure,” Blackledge replied.

Broussard introduced them, placing each of them in context and mentioning that Kit was the one who’d been kidnapped by the parrot smugglers.

“Glad to see you’re unharmed,” Blackledge said, offering his hand across the bed.

It was true they hadn’t met before, but Kit knew his name and his history with Broussard. That and his interruption of their conversation caused her to dislike him. Rather than make an issue of it, she shook his hand and thanked him for his concern. Meanwhile, Broussard hid the card from Blackledge’s secretary under some of his other mail.

Blackledge turned his attention to Broussard. “Odd how things’ll surprise you. I would have bet my ass that the vector we were after was an Ioxid tick, but they were Argasids—soft ticks, for God’s sake—the absolute worst kind, considering how frequently they feed.”

“Was I bitten?” Broussard asked.

“There was no evidence of it.”

“I didn’t cut myself workin’ on any of those bodies, either, and it doesn’t seem to travel in the air . . . so how’d I get it?”

“I noticed that you have cracks in the skin on your feet. . . .”

“Happens every year at this time.”

“Following a hunch, I went to your house and took a look around. I found an Argasid tick crushed on the bathroom floor. My guess is you accidently flattened it when you were wearing shoes, then a short time later stepped on it with your bare foot and became infected through those skin fissures. I cleaned it up and decontaminated the area. I also fed your cat.”

“What haven’t you done?” Broussard said. “David Seymour says it was you who saved me.”

“Yeah, well, I guess now we’re even. How about when you’re up to it, you and I get together for dinner—no agenda, just sort of catch up on each other?”

Bewildered at Blackledge’s congeniality, Broussard said, “Sure. But you’ve got to let me pick the restaurant.”

“Done,” Blackledge said. He glanced at his watch. “Sorry for the brief visit, but I’ve got to get back and interview a prospective Tropical Medicine fellow. I mean it about dinner. This isn’t just Calspeak.”

“I know.”

“Okay, long as you do. Kit . . . good to have met you.”

When he was gone, Broussard looked at Kit. “I don’t know what that was all about. He sounded like he wanted to be friends again.”

“He does.”

“Why? Because I almost died?”

“No. In a way, because you didn’t. Remember him saying, ‘now we’re even’? I think after you rescued his career for him, he felt humiliated and inferior every time you’d meet. And that translated into animosity. Now he’s saved your life, so you can be equals again.”

Having it laid out like that made it all seem obvious. And Broussard was ashamed he’d been so small and self-centered that all these years he’d responded to Blackledge in kind. It was a flaw he vowed to correct. “I see you haven’t lost your skills.”

“I don’t know why I still have those. It seems like I’ve lost everything else.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was taken away from my home as one person and have come back another. Everything has turned inside out.” Then, damn it, she felt her eyes fill. Embarrassed, she pulled her hand free and turned her back so he wouldn’t see.

Shielding the movement, she wiped at her eyes and ordered herself to stop acting like a child. When she’d regained her composure, she turned again to face him. “After what you’ve been through, I shouldn’t be bothering you with my problems. It’s just that . . .”

“What’s happened?”

“That man who sent me the roses . . . He was my . . . my real father.”

“But your mother said he was her brother.”

“She lied. All those years thinking Howard was my father . . . and they didn’t tell me. How could they do that?”

“If someone had asked you before this happened if Beverly and Howard had been good parents, what would you have said?”

“That they were, but . . .”

“Would you have said you’d felt wanted and protected?”

“Yes.”

“And loved?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The lie . . .”

“Forgive me for buttin’ in, but you’re makin’ entirely too much of that. People make mistakes. To expect otherwise is unrealistic.”

“You don’t lie.”

“Lord, don’t look to me. I’ve got plenty of faults. You just showed me one with Blackledge. As for lyin’, I might do it, if the stakes were high enough—if, for example, I thought the truth would upset someone I cared for. I might very well lie . . . and so might you. None of us knows what we’ll do in a tough situation until we confront it. Don’t set such high standards for other people. Our friends and loved ones deserve better.”

“I’m not even sure what love means anymore.”

“Now you’re pushin’ me into an area I have some trouble with myself. If I could get to my ’cyclopedia of practical quotations, I might be able to say somethin’ memorable. Without it, I’m pretty limited. Can’t even think of anything useful Babe Ruth ever said. I do know, though, that now I’ve been given a few more years, I’m gonna try to be less judgmental and make sure I enjoy every day left to me. And I’d like to see you do the same. What do you say we make a pact to do that . . . you and me, right now.”

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I didn’t just dent a fender on my car. I found out half my DNA came from a con man. What does that make me?”

“Nothin’ more or nothin’ less than what you were before you found out.”

Kit had come hoping Broussard would say something to make sense of all that had happened. A better person would have come to comfort him. Suddenly, she felt too ashamed of her behavior to remain.

“I’m sorry, I have to go. Forgive me for being so self-centered. I love it that you’re getting better. It shows that sometimes the right things happen.” She leaned down, kissed him on the forehead, and hurried to the door, where she paused, her hand on the pull. Looking back at Broussard, she said, “Where’s Jack’s body?”

“Still in the morgue.”

“Do you think I could have it released to me?”

“It’s infectious, so I expect the Health Department will order it cremated.”

“Would they let me arrange a place for the ashes?”

“Don’t see why not. I’ll mention that to ’em.”

A few minutes after Kit left, Broussard received another visitor—Ruth Lamm, the hospital infection-control officer, wearing a frilly pink dress, her gray hair perfectly coiffed. She was holding a small azalea whose flowers matched the color of her dress.

“I thought this might brighten things up,” she said, putting it on the window ledge.

“And so it does,” Broussard said.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m startin’ to hate this room.”

“That’s good. It means you’re getting better. I heard how you tracked down the source of the virus. That was fine work.”

“I was lucky.”

“I doubt that.” There was a pause, during which she began smoothing her dress and fidgeting with her hair, obviously uncomfortable over something on her mind. Finally, she said, “I was wondering if . . . That is . . . Oh, hell, I might as well say it straight out. There’s a tractor pull and a monster truck show at the dome two weeks from Saturday night. Would you like to go, assuming you’re feeling up to it? If you’ve never seen a monster truck crush cars in person, it’s something you really should try.”

There wasn’t a defense counsel in the country who could trip Broussard up with an unexpected question. Even when students asked him about things he hadn’t considered in years, the answers came without effort. The juxtaposition, though, of monster trucks and Ruth Lamm cast him adrift.

The event, of course, was one he wouldn’t even think of attending, and she sure wasn’t what he was looking for in a woman, not that he was looking at all. At least those were positions held by the old Broussard. But as he’d told Kit, he was no longer that man. And to prove it, he said, “Sure, why not.”

“Good,” she said. “We can firm up the details later. Now I’ve got some work to do.” She went to the door, then turned around. “By the way, if you don’t want people at the tractor pull staring at you, you might consider leaving at home the string on your glasses and that goofy bow tie you usually wear.”

KIT WALKED TO THE elevators and got on. Howard was her stepfather . . . and he and her mother had kept that from her for decades. It was impossible. Broussard was asking too much to expect her to understand. He’d feel exactly as she did if it happened to him. No . . . it was too much.

Kit rode down two floors, where she got off and made her way to the room number she’d been given by hospital information. Inside, she found Nick Lawson, propped up in bed, reading a paperback copy of Deliverance, surgical bandages covering his left cheek and most of his neck.

“You don’t look so bad,” she said, walking to the bed.

Lawson put his book down and picked up a stick of chalk and a small slate on which he wrote, “Where are my flowers?”

“I thought a real man like you wouldn’t want any.”

With an eraser from the nightstand, he wiped the slate clean, so the dust fell into a shallow plastic container lying beside him. He pecked at the board with the chalk and turned the message toward her.

“Explanation accepted.”

“Will you be able to talk again eventually?” she asked.

He erased the board and wrote again. “Able now. Doc says not to.”

“I hear you were responsible for scaring the kidnappers off just when the cops were on their way.”

The chalk clicked over the board. “I had a bad day. Surprised to see you.”

“I’m sorry you were hurt.”

He used the chalk again. “How about a pity date?”

Kit hesitated, wavering, Broussard’s advice chipping away at the anger she still felt at Teddy’s confession, reminding her of all they’d gone through together with Roy and Larry and all the good times before those two had come along, and how Teddy had not only saved her life there at the end but had long ago given it a center.

“Tell you what . . . you get better and I’ll take you to dinner at a place that serves a very tasty white shark special. They’ll even let you get in the tank and catch the one you want. Not a date, just a thanks for trying to help.”

Lawson wrote again. “Want to get in here with me?”

Before Kit could reply, a nurse came in with a tray of materials. “I’m sorry to interrupt your visit, but it’s time for me to change Mr. Lawson’s dressings.”

“I have some things to do, anyway,” Kit said. She looked at Lawson. “Let me know when you’re ready for that shark.”

She then went to her car and returned home, where she left a message of apology on Teddy’s answering machine in Bayou Coteau, then picked up the paper to look for a new place to live.