Fleur needed to talk with Aaron.
But not about his apparent midday hookup with some blonde in New Orleans, as Tante Lulu kept harping about on the way back to her cottage.
“That boy is gettin’ on my last nerve.”
“Whoo-ee, he is in a heap of trouble. Wonder when he last went ta confession?”
“Didja see that floozy splattered all over him like honey on a hot rock?”
“I think she was lickin’ his ear.”
“Why dint you jist whack her with yer shoppin’ bag fer skunkin’ yer man? Oh, I know he ain’t yer man yet. Give it time. Why are ya lookin’ cross-eyed at me?”
“I been thinkin’ that the fool needs ta put a ring on yer finger, but mebbe you better put a ring in his nose, instead. Tee-hee-hee!”
All this chatter passed over Fleur, who had bigger troubles than Aaron LeDeux and his love life, or Chatty Cathy in a Zsa Zsa Gabor wig (Don’t ask!) and a glittery shirt with a padded bra. Why hadn’t Fleur insisted to Tante Lulu that they go into the nondescript thrift shop in Houma to buy Fleur’s much-needed wardrobe? Why had Fleur succumbed to Tante Lulu’s urging that they try the new consignment shop in New Orleans?
Now, it was too late.
A few moments ago, out in broad daylight, on the busy New Orleans street, she’d seen a nightmare vision from her past.
And he’d seen her, too.
Ten years might have passed since she’d been in the presence of the creep, but she’d never forget Miguel Vascone, a member of the Mexican mob who worked with the Dixie Mafia on sex trafficking. It was Miguel who’d tricked her, a fourteen-year-old runaway, into accompanying him to his “safe house,” which turned out to be not safe at all.
Yes, she took risks all the time, especially when on a Magda mission. Like that time in the New Orleans strip club. But she was always part of a team, and their risks were minimal. Or so she’d thought. For the most part, she’d remained hidden in the remote convent, where she should be now.
How could this have happened to her?
Miguel had been one of her pimps during those six bad years as she’d been rotated from one Mexican city to another, and then occasionally to resort areas (the circuit sometimes referred to as the “Border Cha-Cha Pipeline”), places where Miguel’s father, Santos Vascone, the leader of a powerful drug cartel, owned mansions-turned-prisons for the young prostitutes.
It had been Miguel who’d been knocked over the head with a baseball bat and left for dead in Acapulco when she’d been rescued by a team of Street Apostles and Magdas ten years ago. And she’d been the one wielding the bat left out in the hall by one of the brothel guards. The Street Apostles and Magdas didn’t carry weapons.
Apparently Miguel hadn’t died.
As she peeled out of the parking lot onto Royal Street in Tante Lulu’s hard-to-miss lavender convertible, she’d seen in the rearview mirror that Miguel had at first run after her vehicle, but then stopped and appeared to be making note of the license plate, jotting it down on his hand with a pen or marker or something. Any chance of his not recognizing her were nil.
Oh Lord! Was her ten years of convent safety ended now? Surely, Miguel and his cohorts would have no interest in a woman her age. They much preferred young girls for their clients. But he would want her back to punish her for leaving, and for the injuries he’d incurred.
This was bad. First of all, if he was able to trace the license plate to Tante Lulu’s address, not only was she in danger, but Tante Lulu would be, too. If she went back to the convent, Miguel might be able to track her there; then, the nuns would be in danger. Not just that, but the whole Magda mission in rescuing girls would be jeopardized.
She couldn’t go to the police. Not without discussing it with the Street Apostles or the Magdas. Even then, she had no way of locating Miguel, other than saying he was in New Orleans. And then she would be revealing the activities of the Street Apostles and Magdas, which was a no-no, even for law enforcement.
What to do? What to do?
She needed to talk to someone, and for some reason the person who came to mind was Aaron LeDeux.
“What’s the matter with you, girl?” Tante Lulu asked when they got back to the cottage. “You’re as nervous as a porcupine in a balloon factory, and ya drove so fast back here that I practic’ly got whiplash.” While she talked, she took off her Zsa Zsa Gabor wig and picked road bugs out of the blonde strands.
Fleur explained briefly and told a horrified Tante Lulu that she would give her more details later. She went into the bathroom where she threw up in the toilet, rinsed out her mouth, then straightened with resolve. No time for a pity party.
When she went into the living room, Fleur’s eyes about bugged out when she saw what Tante Lulu was busy doing at the kitchen table, which was visible through the archway, but she would address that later. Instead, she went out to the porch to make her phone call.
“Aaron?”
“Fleur? I was just about to call you.”
“You were?”
“Yeah. About that scene back in the city—”
“Never mind about that.”
“But you should know, that the woman you saw with me wasn’t a girlfriend, or anything like that. She was just a . . . business acquaintance.”
Fleur laughed. “Yeah, that’s what they all say.”
“Seriously. She’s with the FAA, the Federal Aviation Administration. Luc and I met with the agency people this morning. I had lunch with her after my meeting.”
“A liquid lunch?”
“On her part, not mine.”
“Aaron, I don’t care about your women. I thought you understood that.”
“You called me,” he said, clearly offended.
“Not to berate you over your personal life.”
“Anyhow, what you saw . . . that wasn’t the reason I was going to call you, not the main reason. Something has come up involving my brother, and I need a second opinion.”
“From me?” she asked with surprise.
“An objective outsider.”
That sounded cold, but she couldn’t really be offended when she’d pretty much wanted the same thing from him. “Can you come over to Tante Lulu’s? I need to talk to you, too.”
“You sound frightened.”
“I am.”
“What’s the problem?”
“I’d rather discuss it in person.”
He sighed, then agreed, “I’ll be over in an hour. Are you okay in the meantime?”
“Yes.”
“Is Tante Lulu with you?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I sense something in your voice. What is the old lady doing?”
“Putting bullets in her gun.”
He said the F word under his breath. “Do you have a weapon, too?”
“No, although I wield a great bat, if I can find one. Honestly, I feel like Annie Oakley’s sidekick. A Grandma Moses version of Annie Oakley.”
“What does that make me?”
“The Lone Ranger?”
He paused before saying, “Hi ho, Silver pickup truck.”
Just when he thought she was out of reach, she reached out . . .
The Lone Ranger arrived in his silver pickup truck a half hour later. Aaron had probably ruined the shocks on his practically new vehicle, barreling over the rutted country road.
Jumping out to the driveway, he almost tripped over Tante Lulu’s pet alligator. He gave the reptile a dirty look and said, “Don’t even think about it! I’m carrying, and I’m in a bad mood.” Useless opened his huge mouth, and Aaron could swear he yawned. So much for Aaron’s threat! Taking no chances, Aaron unlocked the trash barrel that held about fifty-five gallons of Cheez Doodles, and tossed a few handfuls to the beast. The gator let out a little roar, as if to say, “Thanks, bozo!”
When he walked around to the back of the cottage, he saw Fleur sitting on a rocker, sipping at a glass of iced sweet tea. Through a window, he could see Tante Lulu inside, puttering around in her kitchen. The smell of some spicy food wafted out, a dish involving seafood. With everything so calm and natural, where was the danger?
“That was quick,” she said.
“You made it sound urgent.”
She didn’t claim any different, which caused the fine hairs to rise on the back of his neck.
He sank down into a rocker and looked at her more closely. Her dark hair was in a windblown, messy ponytail, probably from riding in the convertible, and the skin of her face and arms was developing a warm suntan, also probably from riding in the open air. She was wearing the same clothes she’d had on earlier—white, stretchy, knee-length pants, along with an oversize New Orleans Saints T-shirt. She’d mentioned the other day that she had to rely on left-behind apparel at Tante Lulu’s until she had a chance to replenish her almost nonexistent wardrobe. Fashion was not a priority while residing at the Magda convent. Thus the trip into New Orleans today to the used clothing shop, he supposed.
He stiffened, feeling an odd twinge of something—not anger, not pity, but something in between—that she had to borrow clothing or buy used. If she was his . . . well, never mind. That was a road he shouldn’t—couldn’t—go down right now.
“Thank you for coming,” she said.
“You made it sound important.”
“It is.” She set her glass on a side table and clenched her hands together, almost like she was praying. “I saw Miguel Vascone today in New Orleans.”
“Who is Miguel Vascone?”
“The most vile, evil, perverted . . .” She inhaled and exhaled to calm herself, then began to explain, “When I was fourteen years old, on my birthday, I ran away from home. Not for the first time. But on that particular day, I was hanging around with some friends near the bus station in New Orleans. It was a good place for panhandling tourists coming into town. All the kids did it. Sometimes we made enough to buy a fast-food meal. Other times, we’d hit pay dirt and make enough to party. Innocent stuff, especially compared to what kids do today.”
He waited, sensing that she needed to tell this story in her own way. Questions would come later. Like what was so bad about her home life? And how had an underage girl gotten from Bayou Black to the Big Easy? Why hadn’t she been in school?
“Miguel was young and good-looking. He couldn’t have been more than twenty at that time. My girlfriend, Francine Fontaine, and I were contemplating whether we had enough nerve to buy bus tickets to actually leave town. We always had big dreams of running off to Nashville where we would become country music stars. Usually, we just ran away for a day or two before returning home and having our back ends blistered before trying again later. My daddy had a belt he called Big Ben. Frannie’s father preferred kicking, with steel-toed boots.”
He was as horrified by the coolness with which she spoke of the abuse. Sensing she wouldn’t want to delve into the details of her family at this time, he homed in on something else she’d said. “You mentioned Nashville . . . do you have musical talent?”
“Not really, although Frannie was good on the guitar, and I sang sometimes. We busked for cash donations. Our best duo was to that old Patsy Cline song, ‘Crazy.’ Yeah, that’s what we were. Crazy, and dumb as dirt.” She paused, deep in some memory.
“Go on,” he encouraged.
“Miguel told us that he had two motel rooms nearby, one of them empty since his buddy had to go home suddenly. He said we could stay there for the night. And guess what? He just happened to know a guy in Nashville looking for backup singers for a music video being made by Garth Brooks. I know, I know, how could we be so gullible? But Frannie and I had bad home lives, and this guy was being so nice.” She shrugged. “Bottom line, we were drugged, and when we woke up a day, or maybe two, later, we were in some house in Mexico with a bunch of other kidnapped girls. At first, we didn’t understand. But we soon learned. Oh, did we learn!”
“Ah, Fleur,” he rasped out over the lump in his throat, reaching out a hand for hers.
“No!” She moved her arm so he couldn’t touch her. “I’m not telling you this because I want your pity.”
“So, you ran into a guy in New Orleans today. And you recognized him from fifteen—sixteen—years ago?” he asked skeptically.
“There’s more. Miguel’s father is a big honcho with a Mexican drug cartel, or he used to be before he was murdered by some other competing cartel. Miguel and his older brother Juan were in charge of the prostitution side of the business. I saw a lot of Miguel over those six years of hell.” She shivered.
Aaron barely restrained himself from yanking her over and onto his lap, and hugging the fear right out of her.
Tears filled her eyes, and stung his own eyes, too.
“Testers were sent in to pretend to rescue a girl. If she was cooperative, she was punished in the most horrible ways. I can’t even speak about that. Bottom line, I learned to trust no one.”
Aaron had a feeling she’d fallen for the “tester” ruse. Probably more than once. No wonder she had trust issues!
“When I was rescued, along with five other girls, I hit Miguel over the head with a baseball bat. Hard! His skull was bashed in and there was so much blood. I thought he was dead. Apparently not. I’ve since adopted the Magda’s philosophy about nonviolence, but at that time, I wasn’t thinking. Just reacting. No excuse, but . . .” She shrugged.
“Did your friend, Frannie, get rescued at the same time?”
“No.” Tears now streamed down Fleur’s face. “She committed suicide a month after we were kidnapped.”
“Oh, my God!” he whispered, but he had to keep calm, while she was not. “Was returning home, here on the bayou, not a possibility, after your rescue?”
She shook her head. “To my family, I was already dead. Besides, it was my fault for being in that situation, they claimed. They didn’t say the words, but they really thought I should have killed myself, like Frannie. Otherwise, I must have been there willingly.”
Rage filled him at the intolerance of ignorant people. Somehow, he would find an outlet for that rage, later, but he had to focus on what was important in the here and now. “Let’s examine the facts here, Fleur. Ten years later, you think this scumbag recognized you and will somehow locate you and enact revenge. That is a stretch, sweetheart.”
The endearment had just slipped out. Luckily, she didn’t hear or just ignored it. “I saw him write down the license number of Tante Lulu’s car on his hand. How hard is it today, with the Internet and everything, to trace a plate? He’ll come. It’s only a matter of time.”
Okay, maybe not such a stretch, after all. He was beginning to share her distress. “You’ve got to get out of here then. Pronto. That’s the first thing.”
“I know,” she said, more composed as she wiped her face with a tissue, “but I can’t go back to the convent. Even if they don’t find me here, eventually they would go after Tante Lulu to find out where I am.”
She was probably right.
“Not only would that put Tante Lulu in danger, but the convent, too. And not just that. If they make a connection between me, my escape, and the Magdas, their mission to rescue kidnapped girls will be put to an end.”
Maybe. Maybe not.
“Secrecy is essential; it’s a miracle they’ve been able to conceal their activities for so long. If the criminals, or the police, don’t stop their work, the church will.”
Now that’s where he drew the line. “We’re going to have to contact local law enforcement, or the feds, no matter what you say.” He held up a halting hand. “I’m not saying that we do anything without first consulting the Street Apostles and the Magdas, but this is bigger than just you. We’ll move slowly, carefully. Agreed?”
She nodded, reluctantly.
“But first, we need to get you and Tante Lulu to a safe place. Bayou Rose makes the most sense.”
“What? No!” Fleur protested.
“Yes. Perfect,” Tante Lulu said, coming through the screen door by hitting the frame with her little hip. She carried two icy glasses of sweet tea, one of which she handed to him before sitting in the third rocker. “This will be jist like the time you hid Samantha and her step-brother from the Dixie Mafia. You worked up a bite . . . no, a whatchamacallit . . . a sting, that’s it . . . with the FBI and the FDA and a bunch of those other government letter agencies what no one understands, dint ya, Aaron? And yer plantation was the perfect hidin’ place. Plus, Daniel got his chance ta woo Samantha inta bed while she was there. Lagniappe, so ta speak.” She waggled her sparse gray eyebrows at him meaningfully. The gray brows were in contrast to the big blonde wig that sat lopsided on her head, as if she’d just yanked it on before coming outside.
He got her meaning about the lagniappe, the little something extra.
But Fleur didn’t. She was still gaping at Tante Lulu’s long spiel about all those government agencies on his plantation premises and some involvement with the Dixie Mob. Once she’d recovered, she said, “I can’t intrude on you that way, Aaron. I know that I asked you to come and give me advice, but I wasn’t expecting such a huge favor. Besides, your brother and his wife live there. You can’t make that kind of offer for their home.”
“It’s half mine.”
“Still . . .”
“Actually, that was the thing I wanted to discuss with you, Fleur. Turns out my brother and Samantha may be moving to Baton Rouge for a new job. So, I may be living there all by my lonesome.”
Fleur looked puzzled as to why this was something he wanted to discuss with her. He wasn’t sure he had an answer.
“What? Thass the first I’ve heard ’bout Daniel and Samantha movin’,” Tante Lulu said, but immediately added, “See. It was meant ta be. We’re movin’ inta Bayou Rose. It’ll be jist like a vacation. I get the bedroom next ta the bathroom.”
“Don’t tell anyone about Daniel moving,” Aaron warned Tante Lulu. “Nothing definite has been decided.”
Tante Lulu pretended to zip her lips and throw the imaginary key over her shoulder.
“If nothing is decided, they won’t be moving right away. We would still be intruding,” Fleur argued. “Especially at this time, with Samantha about to have a baby. Talk about impositions!”
“It ain’t imposin’ when it’s family,” Tante Lulu told her.
“But I’m not family.”
“Shush yerself, girl. Yer extended family.”
Fleur ignored what Tante Lulu just said, though Aaron could tell she was kind of touched. The old lady had a knack for doing that, annoying the hell out of you, then doing something wonderful. “The timing is also bad for you, Aaron. With the FAA investigation, you need to keep under the radar.” Fleur looked imploringly at him, trying to get him on her side.
Not a chance! “No one’s going to know that I’m involved with you.” He liked the sound of that and couldn’t help but grin.
“Stop flashing that dimple at me. There’s nothing funny about this situation.”
She noticed my dimple again. That has to be a good sign. “It’s not about funny. It’s about me being happy to help two lovely ladies.”
Tante Lulu preened.
Fleur snorted, and he thought she muttered something under her breath, immediately followed by “Click!”
“Okay, I’m going to call my brother to alert him to the situation while you two start packing. I’ll call Luc, too, and tell him to come out to Bayou Rose tomorrow.”
“Why Luc? He’s a lawyer. We don’t need a lawyer. We need protection.”
“We need Luc’s skills in planning which agencies to contact. I’ll provide any protection you need.”
“I’ll protect you, too,” Tante Lulu offered, patting the pistol in her hip holster, which he’d just noticed.
Fleur groaned.
“Later, I’ll call Snake, and see what they suggest from their end,” Aaron said. To Tante Lulu, he explained, “Snake is an old Air Force buddy of mine. Brian Malone. Rather, Brother Brian Malone with the St. Jude’s Street Apostles.” It had taken Snake a long time to recuperate from his wounds last year, but he was back in action again, back at the Street Apostles’ Dallas headquarters.
“Maybe I could hide out there . . . at the Street Apostles’ ranch,” Fleur said.
“Maybe,” Aaron conceded, though he preferred her under his care.
“I have Shrimp Étouffée ready ta go in the oven fer dinner. Should we eat first?” Tante Lulu asked.
“No, just pack it up. We’ll eat it back at Bayou Rose.”
“What about Tante Lulu’s convertible?” Fleur asked, apparently resigned, finally, to their move. At least temporarily. “I put it in the garage, but I’m not sure we should leave it here. Miguel and his grunts might see it through the garage window and decide to wait us out. If it’s not here, they might think they got the wrong place.”
“From your lips to God’s ears,” Aaron said.
“Or St. Jude’s,” Tante Lulu piped in.
“We’ll bring the car with us,” Aaron decided. “You can drive it or my truck,” he told Fleur.
While Tante Lulu and Fleur went inside to prepare for their indefinite stay at the plantation, Aaron took out his phone to call his brother. But first, he listened in as Tante Lulu told Fleur, “Stop bein’ so snarky with Aaron. He’s tryin’ ta help.”
“I just don’t want to be beholden to the man.”
“Why? He’s in love with you.”
“He used to be. Not anymore.”
“That’s what you think. That boy wants ta jump you like a dead battery, if ya ask me.”
“I am dead, that’s for sure. In more ways than one.”
“Ain’t you jist a ray of sunshine. Give yerself a chance, girl. Sometimes happiness sneaks in through a door ya dint know was left open.”
Fleur laughed. “You are nuttier than squirrel poop. Maybe when you’re done with your herb remedy book, and your biography, you could write a book of Cajun proverbs. Wacky Cajun proverbs.”
“Good idea. Here’s a good one ta start with. ‘People are lonely because they build walls instead of bridges.’ And, missie, yer walls are so thick, it would take dynamite ta break through. By the way, make sure ya bring yer computer and all those folk remedy books of mine soz you can work on the project while we’re at Bayou Rose. Ya never know how much time I have left and we gotta make use of every minute.”
“Are you unwell?”
“Nah, but best ta be prepared. We kin work on my biography, too. Lordy, every time I think all my adventures are over, somethin’ else comes up. Ain’t this excitin’?”
“Yeah, real exciting!”
“Keep frownin’ like that and yer face is gonna freeze like an old hag. Me—as old as I am—I’ll never look like a hag ’cause I’m allus so cheery and positive. You could learn some things from me, girl.”
Aaron grinned. Fleur was probably doing mental clicks in her head. He pressed the contact number on his cell phone and waited. Finally, Dan picked up.
“Hey, bro,” Aaron said cheerily. “You ready for some company?”
“Uh.”
“I’m over at Tante Lulu’s. I’m bringing her and Fleur back there with me.”
“Why? For how long?”
“Indefinite.”
“What’s this about, Aaron?”
“Remember how the plantation became a hideout for Samantha and her step-brother Angus and his girlfriend Lily Beth last year?”
“Yeeaah,” Dan said, drawing the word out.
“This is kind of the same situation, except maybe worse.”
“Aaron!”
“Are you okay with me bringing them there?”
“Of course. I’ll tell Samantha and Aunt Mel to get some rooms ready, or do you think they would prefer one of the cottages? They’re empty for the moment while work is being done on the new septic lines, but I’m sure we could make one or two of them useable by jerry-rigging the old pipes.”
“Maybe. No, I think it would be better if they were inside the Money Pit.” That was their name for the mansion that ate cash like a slot machine, the kind that only took big bills. “We can decide that later. For now, for tonight at least, let’s plan on them being in the main house.”
“Okay. Anything you want us to do from this end?”
“No. Just know that Fleur is really anxious about intruding. Make her feel welcome.”
“Of course.”
His heart kind of swelled with love and pride that his brother didn’t insist on more details before agreeing to unexpected guests. “Thanks, bro. You’re the best,” Aaron choked out.
“Always,” his brother said. “One last thing. Does this mean we’re going to get a St. Jude swimming pool, with the bayou bulldozer, aka Tante Lulu, on the job site?”
“Probably,” Aaron said with a laugh.
“You know what the old lady’s going to say about all this, don’t you? It’s St. Jude and the Thunderbolt at work. All part of the celestial plan to get you to jump through the love hoops.”
Aaron could only hope. As long as he wasn’t making that jump by himself.