12

 

I walked along the shoulder of the pitted road on my way to the small public library a couple miles from the Lightning Bug. The tension in that house made my stomach flop and I didn’t want to be there anymore. But with the town’s harvest festival gearing up for this weekend and the jazz musicians and other revelers taking up all the available hotel rooms, the chances of finding another place to stay seemed slim.

After Jake left, Citrine and Michelle refused to talk or even look at me. The only choice I had was to clear out of their way for the rest of the day and try to sneak in under the radar tonight. I used to spend entire days in the library back in college. It shouldn’t be too hard to bide my time there.

My lip trembled despite my effort to be angry more than hurt at Jake’s words. I did care about what happened to Dauby and his family. The fact that it didn’t take much to convince Jake otherwise made me feel stupid for falling for his southern gentleman shtick. Whenever that man got near me, my brain fritzed out. I kicked an empty soda can. It careened off a boulder with a satisfying crash.

Why should it matter if he could trust me? All I wanted from him was an inside track to interview the locals, right? I’d almost convince myself, and then the heat of his kiss and the feel of his arms would send ripples through me and I’d get angry all over again. I never lost focus like this, not in all my time as an investigative reporter. What was it about him that threw me off balance?

I glanced every few minutes at the column of smoke that rose out of the swamp’s trees. Dauby’s place must still be on fire. I gritted my teeth with frustration. Someone seemed to be one step ahead of me since I got here. I hated the feeling.

I thought about Dauby and his poor family. Losing him like that, then this? I shook my head and stifled a sob. This was not like tracking a middle-aged politician to his mistress’s house. This was murder. I was almost positive.

It started to drizzle, the tiny sprinkles pricking my face with cold sharpness. It felt good and I stuck out my tongue and tried to catch some drops.

On the parish’s website as a historical building, the library took up all three floors of an old mansion owned by one of the town’s original families. Converted to a library in the late seventies, the columned plantation-style house stood on a low hill that sloped away from the road.

I hopped from stepping stone to stepping stone on the path leading up to the doors while growling into my cell phone.

“You know I really don’t appreciate what you wrote on that fax, Perry. You might as well have sent over a hive full of angry bees.”

Perry chuckled, his tone not the least bit apologetic. “I assumed you checked yourself into a professional establishment with a business center and a secretary, not some local’s room-for-rent operation. How was I supposed to know they’d read your mail?”

“Are you trying to make this harder?” A low hum made me turn and I caught sight of an ATV along the road. Two people sat on it; a larger man and a female, or teenage kid. Helmets obscured their faces. It neared and slowed as if they meant to stop, but an approaching semi-truck blocked my view of it. When it passed, the ATV was on its way again. I stared after it until Perry’s voice indicated that I missed his last sentence.

“What?”

“Who cares if the woman who makes the morning waffles saw my message to you?”

“You don’t get how tiny this parish is, Perry.” I looked to see if the ATV kept going. “If they didn’t trust me before, then they really don’t, now.”

“What are you…running for homecoming queen down there? You shouldn’t care if they trust you, or not. You told me you had proof your brother didn’t do this—this thing.” Perry’s voice rose. “I went to Global Media with that and they made an offer based on my promise that you’d clear your family’s name.”

“What does it matter, anyway?” I reached the large double doors and leaned against the alcove wall. “I thought they wanted me for my investigative skills? The Whitford scandal should prove I’m able to deliver results.”

Perry snorted a laugh. “You can’t be that naïve, Riley. You’re not the only investigative reporter out there with a pretty face. What sets you apart are your family connections that can get you in where others can’t. They want the whole package, the daughter of the crusaders carrying on your family’s fight against injustice. How’re we going to sell that if you can’t get your brother’s name off of the plant disaster?”

I rubbed my forehead, hoping to quell the headache there. “You make them sound like superheroes.”

“To a lot of people, your parents are. The strides your mother made to bring funding and aid to battered women and children are enormous.”

“I know, Perry.”

“And don’t get me started on your father. Talk about fearless in a pursuit.”

I shifted, annoyed. I’d heard this before. “What about the book deal?”

“They have some format ideas. Maybe part memoir, part retelling of your investigation into Whitford. They’re tossing around titles that have ‘Lioness’ in it.”

“That’s what people call my mother.”

“Yeah, well, it apparently applies to you now, at least for marketing purposes.”

I groaned and the image of a mushroom cloud flitted behind my eyes. Would I ever escape the shadow of the Drake name?

“They’re just ideas, Riley.” Perry soothed. “But you get the point of how interconnected your success is with your family’s standing?”

“Yes.” I pursed my lips. “I get it.”

“So don’t call me until you have good news.”

I hung up and walked into the library’s vast foyer. A marble–topped table stood at the foot of a grand staircase that led up to the second floor. The vase centered on the table held a spray of yellow daffodils and lavender. Their fragrance mingled with the dusty scent of old books and smelled wonderful. I stood there, breathing in the flowers and trying to calm my angry thoughts when a thunderclap slammed down from the sparking sky. I jumped.

“Oh dear, you’re a skittish one, aren’t ya?” The soft voice from the counter floated across the polished floor. With hair in a silver-white bun atop her head and spectacles on the end of her nose, she looked like a fifties school-marm. I recognized her from her picture on the website.

I extended my hand. “You must be Mrs. Trebuchet.”

“Oh, call me Bonnie.” She nodded out to the clouds. “I hope you don’t check out any horror books.”

“Horror?” I spiked an eyebrow.

“Well, you’re liable to jump right out of your own skin.”

“Uh, no. I’m just hiding out here, actually.”

“Oh, that does sound exciting, doesn’t it?” She tapped her fingertips together and her excited smile crinkled the edges of her pale blue eyes. “From whom?”

I refused to add fuel to the gossip fire.

“I thought I’d do some research, actually,” I said instead. “I’m interested in the archives for the local newspaper.”

Nodding, Bonnie shuffled out from around the counter.

I followed her to the foot of the staircase.

“Those would be on the third floor, dear. Newspapers older than two years are on microfiche and any articles about residents of Bayou La Foudre are in the file cabinets by last name.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “You’re that boy’s sister, aren’t you?”

I gritted my teeth. “Yes.” Bracing for caustic words or blame, Bonnie shocked me when she reached for my hand, held it gently in hers, and gave a soft squeeze.

“You must be devastated.”

“I—I am, Bonnie. I honestly can’t believe…” I was at a loss for words.

“Well, my prayers go out to you and your family.” Bonnie said softly. “I know your family isn’t, uh, into things like that …”

“I am.” I was grateful for her comfort. “I am and I’m thankful, Bonnie, truly.”

She patted my hand, and then waved me off to the stairs. “I’m ordering lunch out from Verona’s in a bit, dear. Just in case.”

“Uh, Bonnie…” I licked my lips, nervous. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t let anyone know I was here. I’m not really drawing smiles, if you know what I mean.”

“Sure, dear. You can stay as long as you like.” Glancing outside, she shook her head. “If you stay too long, though, you might have to wait out the storm here.”

“Oh…you think it’s close?”

“Not the big one, not tropical storm Erin, but a decent one might hit us by nightfall.”

“Thanks, Bonnie,” I called back from the first landing.

The archives were in the third floor attic. It reminded me of ancient, cramped tombs broken into after remaining sealed for thousands of years. The layer of dust on the wood and brass file cabinets would’ve made any movie special effects team proud. A lone exposed light bulb snaked down from the rafters and shone weakly on the roll-top desk and wood chair in the corner. This room appeared undisturbed in years.

I walked to the half-moon window and tilted the shutters to let the afternoon light inside. The wan shards sliced through the swirling dust eddy, but didn’t provide much light.

Distant thunder rumbled.

I squinted between the slats and spotted the smoke cloud over the bayou canopy, caught myself worrying about Jake, and snapped the shutters closed with a scowl.

I discovered the archive also served as dumping ground for several strange objects.

A ship’s figurehead rested on an old table; the carving in the shape of a woman, her hand shielding her eyes as she stared out. Faded blue and white paint decorated her partially clad body.

In a wood crate on the floor, a pile of metal canteens, some still in their canvas sleeves, shared floor space with three huge hollow heads, the plastic kind used in parades. The creepy red smiles, now cracked with time, gave me the willies.

“Oh, I don’t think so.” I pulled at the sheet draped over some paintings leaning against the far wall, and covered the heads. “That’s much better.”

In a supply closet, I found a couple more desk lamps, their cords wrapped around their chunky brass stands. I positioned them around the room and turned them on. Now properly lit, the attic actually felt cozy. Not a bad place to hide out.

I stood in the middle of the warped wood floor and closed my eyes, listening to the sounds of the old house creaking and settling. Tinkling wind chimes outside played a solemn cry of lost and forgotten memories.

I dropped into the chair and set my purse on the faded blotter. I flicked on the amber desk lamp, pulled my notepad out, and peered at my notes by the warm glow.

The picture that I took of the sketch in Dauby’s kitchen was too small to decipher on my phone’s small screen. I decided to send it to my email account and look on my laptop once I went back the Lightning Bug. That done, I pulled Randy’s MP3 player out of my purse. Flipping to a fresh sheet of paper in my notepad, I stuck the ear buds of the player in my ears and restarted the file I’d found last night.

Randy, for some reason, recorded a garbled conversation between him and a woman. He must have had the recorder in his shirt pocket because I kept hearing a muffled scratching noise, like the microphone of the player rubbed against something every few seconds. What I could make out was worrisome.

In the conversation, they chatted back and forth about possible targets and things like directed detonations and chemical names I vaguely remember from high school years. I jotted down names of chemicals, allusions to places and times. They mentioned a restaurant and I wrote it down too, desperate for every particle of information that might help.

The wind outside rattled the trees against the small window, and I hugged myself. Cold.

I shut off the MP3 player, frustrated. The recording needed cleaning up. I knew there wouldn’t be a place here, but maybe…

A beep in the corner startled me, and I jumped. Another beep sounded, and I spotted a blinking red light on a plastic console mounted by the door. I walked over, saw that it was an intercom, and pressed the button below the light.

“Uh, yes?”

“Oh, how are you doing up there, dear?” Bonnie’s voice squeaked out of the plastic speaker. “Are you hungry yet? You’ve been up there for some time.”

“No, I’m fine. Are you heading out? Do I need to leave?”

“Well, I am going home, but you’re welcome to stay as long as you like, dear. Just be sure to close the front door when you leave.”

“OK, Bonnie, thanks.” Something occurred to me. “How do I lock it?”

“What? The door?” Bonnie chuckled softly. “Why would you lock the door?”

“In case…” I stopped, surprised. “What if someone comes in to steal something?”

“I don’t see why anyone would do that if you can check out the books for free.” The amusement in Bonnie’s voice made me smile. Small parish life was definitely different than living in the city.

“Oh, all right.” I said finally.

“Bye, dear.”

A few minutes later, she walked out the front door, got into the only car in the parking lot, and drove away.

I watched from the half-moon window. The old house seemed suddenly lonely and a bit eerie. The darkening sky with its flashes of light didn’t help. I leaned against the wall thinking, my eyes on the wood file cabinets.

“What can it hurt?”

On the second drawer, the yellowed label read, ‘AM-AZ.’ I licked my lips, my hand on the brass handle, debating. I had told Bonnie I intended to do some research, so I wasn’t peering into files without permission. I glanced at the microfiche machine still shrouded in its opaque plastic dust cover, the boxes of film piled neatly on a shelf overhead. General news wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted articles on the locals…on Jake.

I pulled the drawer open, walked my fingers along the tabs, and stopped. The last file, labeled with the neat lettering of a hand stamper, bore the last name “Ayers.” I hesitated for a moment, and then pulled it out.

I opened the file with shaking hands. I felt like a stalker, peeking into Jake’s life without his knowledge, or permission. Still, the files were public, right?

Bonnie, or whoever archived the articles, cut them from the original newspaper and hand pasted them onto cardstock. I flipped through the faded pages announcing births and deaths from as far back as eighty years ago. The pictures of Jake’s family, strikingly similar, all had the same intense stare.

Reading the articles, I discovered that Jake’s father and his grandfather all served as the parish’s sheriff at one time or another. Jake was sworn in as sheriff thirteen years ago.

“Wow,” I muttered to no one. “That’s a long time.”

The man who served before Jake was named Jason Ayers. I remembered the name from an earlier article and flipped back.

Jason Ayers, born a year and a half before Jake, was his older brother. I stared at the article announcing his election as sheriff. Jake’s brother looked a lot like him. Same eye shape and jaw, but his brother’s features seemed softer, somehow, more like his French ancestry, I guessed.

The next article wasn’t a story, but an obituary for Jake’s mother, Justine Ayers. The picture that ran with the announcement showed a woman still striking at the age of seventy-seven. The obituary listed her death from natural causes and that she was survived by her husband, Edward Ayers, and her son, Jacob. The obituary ran four years ago.

I cocked my head to the side. So if Jason was Jake’s brother, and he died…then he died some time ago.

I leafed back through the file searching for something to explain the date of death. I passed an announcement for Jake’s going-away party at Verona’s Vittles. Something about the military. Jake served in the Navy? I kept searching until I found an obituary that ran fifteen years ago.

Jason Ayers, beloved Sheriff of La Foudre Parish, lost his life yesterday in a tragic motorcycle accident on Bramble Cliff Road. He was hit by a truck at 11:45 pm and killed instantly. An unnamed deputy speculated that Ayers may have been driving at an unusually high rate of speed and possibly on the wrong side of the road, but that has not been officially confirmed. His brother, Jake Ayers, back from the military only two weeks, was also at the scene, but unharmed. Services will be at La Foudre Community Chapel on Thursday. Call Edna at the front desk for details.

I reread the article twice, trying to take in every nuance.

Jake was there that night. He’d just come back from…where?

I sat at the desk listening to the wind outside and thinking. Sounds from outside the archive room pulled my attention, and I went to check it out, glancing at the window on the way.

Dark blotches scarred the orange sky as the sun, half hidden by the trees, dipped low on the horizon.

“Bonnie?” I called.

No one answered.

I heard another bump, as if someone shoved a chair across the wood floor, and the hair on my arms stood on end. I crept along the stair railing, peering down to the marble table in the foyer. The lights were out, and the shrouding darkness made my chest tight with fear. I hated the dark, had since childhood, and pushed back the panic that clawed.

I remembered seeing the light switch at the foot of the stairs.

More noise below sent fear knifing through me. I struggled to keep my breathing quiet and controlled. Taking the steps slowly, willing myself to be silent, I went down the carpeted stairway to the front door. I tried the light switch; nothing.

Desperate panic tore through me, and I flattened against the rough walls as I took the last few steps to the first floor.

I gasped when I saw the open door. It bumped against the umbrella stand with a gust of wind. The bump I’d heard before? I couldn’t be sure.

Looking around frantically for a weapon and hoping I wasn’t about to frighten some old lady to death, I grabbed a wood candle holder and held it over my head like an ax.

“Hello?” My voice trembled a bit, but I stepped forward, gaze on the open doorway. “Bonnie?”

The smell hit me before I saw him. Standing just outside the library’s door on the cement porch was a man in a tattered coat. He raised a gnarled hand towards me. “Rileeee…” his guttural growl sent me staggering back, my butt hitting the marble-topped table, stopping me.

I remembered the candlestick and shook it like a batter taunting a pitcher.

“You better watch out,” I panted over my panic. “I – I was MVP of my softball team!”

He looked at me with wide, yellowed eyes, and I noticed a shopping cart parked next to him. In it, a tattered chicken sat in the front seat. I looked at it, and then at him and struggled to wrap my mind around what I was seeing.

He grimaced, showing blackened teeth. He pointed again. “The light,” he breathed and I smelled the rot of his bad gums. “Milk and the light of truth, Rileeee. Milk and the light of truth!”

Lightning lit up his jagged silhouette in a scene a horror enthusiast would truly appreciate.

It was all too much for my brain to handle. I screamed and ran at him with the candlestick.

He screamed and flailed his arms, off balance, falling to the side of the door as I barreled past.

I ran full bore, with my legs pumping, not looking back. I cried, crazily guilty that I lied about the softball. I’d never played. I’d been a track star.

I heard him yell, but the thunder ate up his words.

Freaked out and angry at my own bizarre reaction, I slowed when I hit the street. To my right, headlights from a truck lit up the dark road. I called to them, arms waving.

“Hey, hold on,” I panted.

The truck stopped and I staggered to the driver’s side.

The driver’s side window rolled down and I gasped with relief. “Thank goodness it’s you!”

The driver’s eyebrow went up. “Girl, have you lost your mind?” Verona snapped her gum. “What’re you doing running around in the dark like that? You trying to get yourself killed?”

 

****

 

We sat in the same booth we’d occupied before.

She pushed a steaming cup of coffee to me and urged me to drink. “You want to tell me what that particular piece of drama was all about?”

I laughed nervously. “I think I attacked a homeless guy with the library’s décor.”

She blinked, and then snapped her gum. Eyes narrowing, she nodded outside. “Did he have a chicken with him?”

“Yeah…how did you…?”

“Awe, that’s the Chicken Guy,” she said and waved her hand dismissively. “He’s harmless.”

“He knew my name.” I sipped the coffee. “He said my name. Twice.” I tried to stifle a shudder, failed, and burned my hand with sloshing coffee.

“Huh.” Verona shrugged. “Guess he knows you, then.”

“I’ve never met him before.” I used the paper napkin to wipe up the spilled coffee.

“Well, homeless dudes don’t go around calling your name unless they know you, Red.” Verona rolled her eyes. “We need to call Jake.”

I touched her forearm. “Please don’t.”

She looked down at my hand and I moved it, with a pleading look.

“You two have a spat?” She sat back down. “Cause he can be infuriating, I know, but he’s a good guy. He’s worth the trouble.”

“We’re—there’s no relationship, Verona.” I looked at her, exasperated. “Where’d you get that from?”

“Then why?”

“Why what?”

“Why don’t you want me to call him?”

“We did have a fight, but…”

“I knew it.” She bobbed her head, like those bobble-head dolls on dash boards.

“It’s not because we’re a couple,” I whispered the last word. “He thinks I lied to him.”

“Did you?” Verona snapped her gum again and crossed her arms.

“No.” I shook my head. “No, I didn’t. Citrine misinterpreted a fax and—”

“Oh, do not get me started on her and her daughter.” Verona rolled her eyes. “That woman… anyways, what were you doing at the library? No one ever goes there since they built that new one out in Thibodaux. The parish just keeps that old house open because some rich family pays for it out of their estate.”

“I was hiding out from…all of them. Then Bonnie left, so I was alone. I must have been reading for a while up on the third floor, because before I knew it, it was dark.” I rubbed my crossed arms. “I hate the dark, Verona.”

“Yeah, I saw that,” she said. “You looked terrified out there.”

Nodding, I sipped the coffee. “Anyway, I was reading some…files,” I hedged. “And then I heard a noise, went to investigate, and you know the rest.”

Verona leaned back and looked at me.

I didn’t know if I should stare back, or not.

“What?”

“What were you doing up there in the archives?”

“I – I was…” I was caught. “I was reading up on Jake.”

She smirked. “Find anything interesting?”

I leaned forward. “I found out about the brother you mentioned.”

Her smile faded. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” I repeated. “Why would he never mention this to me?”

“Because it’s painful, and it happened fifteen years ago.”

“Even after my brother died, though? I thought that we formed…a bond, or something. I’d just lost a brother, and Jake knew what that felt like. Why wouldn’t he say anything?” I blew out a breath. “I sound lame.”

Why was I telling her all this?

Verona nodded out the window, seemingly lost in thought.

I watched her silently, not knowing what she thought of me, or me and Jake, or why it would matter, anyway.

She turned to me, her face almost sad. “Why are you doing this, Red? Do you even know yourself?”

I felt the ache of sorrow constrict my throat. I fought to keep from crying. “I feel like it’s my fault. Like I should have seen where Randy was headed and what was coming and stopped it.”

“And now you think that proving Randy wasn’t alone, you can make things right?” Verona’s gaze went to the bandages on my forearms.

I pulled my sleeves down subconsciously.

“Is that what you’re hoping to do here?”

“I don’t know, maybe?” I said, truly lost. “I wish Jake could understand that. I wish he saw how desperately I need to make this right; and not for some stupid television show, but for peace, or closure, or something.”

I told her about the letter Randy sent, about Randy’s problem with depression when he was younger, and about the fax that set off the fight between Jake and me.

She listened, a concerned look on her face. “You feel like you failed your brother.”

I nodded, wiped my eyes, and frowned at the mascara stains on the napkin. “I’ve tried to let things fall where they may. I tried to get it out of my mind, to let it go and toe the line my family wanted me to, but for some reason, I have to do this.”

“Have you told these things to Jake?”

“What for? It wouldn’t change his mind about helping me, now. Besides, he wouldn’t understand. He’s just interested in keeping the peace out here, no matter what he has to overlook to make that happen.”

“No, Red, I think in all the parish, Jake’s the one who knows exactly how you feel.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Jake caused his brother’s death,” Verona whispered. “He killed his older brother. At least, that’s how he sees it. And feeling that way, he wouldn’t tell you. ”

“What?” Alarm and shock shot through me. “How?”

“Jake and Jason argued that night.” Verona twisted the napkin in her fingers, frowning. “They got in a fistfight. Jason sped off on his bike and crashed into a truck a few miles down the road.”

My chest tightened with sorrow. “That’s terrible, Verona.”

“What’s worse, the fight was over a woman.” Verona was sad. “It was over Citrine.”