Nancy K. Duplechain - Dark Trilogy 01 - Dark Bayou

Dark Bayou

Dark Bayou

A novel by
Nancy K. Duplechain

Copyright © 2010 by Nancy K. Duplechain

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-0-557-61434-9

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Visit author website:
www.NancyKDuplechain.com

A very special thank-you goes out to my wonderful family and friends who helped to make my little story possible. There are far too many to name, but they know who they are. Each has my deepest gratitude. And of course, thank you to my mother, Dot. Her encouragement has strengthened me more than she can ever know.

For my father, Ronald A. Duplechain, the first to tell me I was a writer.

“
Ev’ry li’l bug has a honey to hug but me.”
- Will Eisner

The swamp,

With its sad, sunken trees,

Draped in Spanish moss;

Its creatures idling quietly in the murky waters,

Prey and predators.

Ornate Catholic cathedrals.

Intertwining of French and English languages.

Dirt roads and tall grass.

Sweltering heat and drenching humidity,

As feet dance and toes tap

To the Cajun beat of fiddle and accordion.

And how the Cajuns cherished it all.

How I came to cherish it.

It was beautiful …

And it was haunted.

1

Just a Visit

R
hythmic beats of popular songs thumped through my body, pounding in my chest. I was at the bar, leaning against some good-looking guy who was sitting on one of the bar stools. My friend Shelly, was giggling about something and my other friend, Randa, was laughing while some hot guy of her own was working his hand down her back. My hot guy’s name was Trick. He was from New Mexico and that was all I knew about him.

Trick rubbed my thigh with his free hand while he downed a shot of Tequila with the other. I did a shot of Tequila Rose and, later, was glad I had done so. By the time I heard the news, the alcohol helped to keep me from panicking.

“—thigh—ting!” said Trick.

I leaned my ear closer to his full lips, indicating for him to repeat what he just said. “Your thigh is vibrating!” he said. I looked down and saw his hand was locked in a grip on my leg. I smiled coyly at him and gently removed his hand. I reached into the pocket of my jeans, pulled out my cell and checked the caller ID.

It read:
Clothilde
.

I hesitated before flipping open my phone. “Hello?” I said. I couldn’t hear a reply and I really shouldn’t have expected to hear one. Eighty-one-year-old women can’t compete with modern club music.

Shelly looked at me, concerned. “You all right, Leigh?”

“Yeah. I’ll be right back.” I excused myself and went outside where there was still plenty of noise from all the weekend traffic on Sunset Boulevard, but at least I could hear. I hesitated once more before putting the phone back to my ear. It had been two years since I spoke to her and I knew that, for her to be calling me now, it couldn’t be good news.

“Maw-maw? What’s wrong?”

* * *

Going home should feel warm and inviting. Even the sound of those words evokes images of smiles, hugs and good times. But my mind tangled images of family and friends with something dark and brooding—something in the distance, like a thundercloud. Whatever it was, I couldn’t name it other than to say that it was a slight feel of dread, but not for the obvious reasons. One would expect to dread going to a funeral, especially if it’s family in the casket. That sense of dread was very familiar to me since I’d gone through it a few times before. This was something different, something unfamiliar. And, even though it was irrational, it frightened me.

My plane arrived in Baton Rouge at 9:05 A.M. As soon as I set foot outside of the airport, the humidity enveloped me like a warm, damp blanket that can only come from late spring in Louisiana. I was just grateful it wasn’t July or August. Apparently I had gotten too used to the dry California sun. I hurried to my rental car, a 2009 silver Ford Focus, which was waiting for me across the street in the rental lot. As soon as I got in, I started up the ignition and turned the AC on full blast.

I laid my head back against the headrest, closed my eyes, and let the cool air dry the perspiration from my forehead. I allowed myself a few seconds to relax, pushing away the images of all those eyes that would be staring at me as soon as I would walk into the funeral home. A few seconds turned into a couple of minutes, and it got easier for me to put off my task, wanting instead to just stay in the silver—
casket
, my mind whispered—car for the rest of my duration in Louisiana. I forced open my eyes, put the AC on low, and drove out of the parking lot.

Driving down I-10 West, my foot didn’t seem to want me to go past 65 on the 70 mph road. As I made it onto the Atchafalaya Basin Bridge, I dropped down to 55, even though the limit was 60 here. The bridge was eighteen miles long and my stomach started to churn as water and Spanish-moss-draped trees whirled by me, reminding me that I was getting closer to Lafayette. Before I knew it, I was off the bridge and Lafayette was ten miles away.

I suddenly felt very hot. The hair against my neck was soon wet and sticky. My mouth felt like an oven as a small wave of nausea hit me. I swallowed a few times and adjusted the AC to high which helped for a minute. But as each mile marker drew me closer, my temples soon felt like they were being pressed with giant hands. I concentrated on breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth but it hardly helped.

I pulled over as soon as I found a safe spot to do so. I put on my emergency lights, turned off the car, and got out. I walked over to the grassy side and barely got control of the nausea. I walked around for a minute, thinking of pleasant things, like the beaches in Malibu, the rooftop of my building where I could see the Hollywood lights all around me, and the mountains.
God, I’m so far from the mountains
.

I started to calm a bit. I faced the wooded area separating the eastbound lanes of I-10 from the westbound lanes. For a second, it looked like someone was walking my way, coming from the thicket of trees. I was sure he was going to ask if I needed help, and I was mentally preparing to politely decline, but no one came. My eyes searched the shadows, but I saw no one.
Just your imagination
, I thought. But I could have sworn—
just your imagination
, my mind echoed. I turned my attention again to my task. I reluctantly got back into the silver Focus and continued my journey down the freeway to the home I once knew.

I pulled into the parking lot of the Chevalier Funeral Home and, after a couple of rounds, could not find a spot. I exited the lot and parked down the street, next to a line of police cruisers.
Just get through this day and you can go back to L.A.
, I told myself, wishing I could be anywhere, even the over-crowded LAX airport instead of here. I took a deep breath and got out.

From the street, I could see the porch of the funeral home. There were a few people I didn’t recognize standing there, chatting and sipping coffee. It was nearly ninety degrees outside and everyone was in black. For the women it wasn’t so bad because most had short-sleeved dresses, but it was worse for the men who wore suits. It was especially tough for all the officers who were in the full customary police uniforms. I walked up the steps and onto the porch. So far, no one I recognized. I saw a couple of men in uniform and one woman, but I didn’t know them. They must have joined the force after I left Lafayette.

I hesitated again before entering the lobby. With a final mental push, I walked through the doors, prepared for an entire room of people to stare at me with contempt, and unforgiving eyes. As I walked in, I noticed with great relief that no one was even looking at me. I supposed that was because most mourners were in the chapel room, no doubt making their rounds to get a look at the bodies. I always thought that was so morbid, to look at the dead. My father felt the same way. That’s why he wanted to be cremated. He specifically put in his will that he did not want to be on display. I couldn’t blame him, even though I’ve had to do more than just look at dead bodies in medical school. But that was for science, not some social ritual.

Before I went any further, I was halted by a photo display near the lobby entrance. I studied the pictures on the cork board on the large easel. I remembered most of them. Some looked like they were taken after I left. There was David and Michelle on their wedding day. I remembered how uncomfortable he was in his tux, and how she had fussed at him because he kept squirming when they were trying to take the picture. I moved on to the picture of them in the hospital, holding Lyla just after she was born. How proud David looked. There were a few other pictures, older ones. One was for David’s first communion, and I was standing next to him. I remembered how he didn’t like having his little sister posing with him. And then it hit me for the first time since being back in Louisiana. My brother was gone. He was gone and so was his wife, and I hadn’t seen them in years. I hadn’t even talked to them in almost a year.

Just as a huge wave of guilt was about to wash over and drown me, I felt something tugging at my hand. I looked down to see a little boy, probably no more than six years old, with a huge smile, and one hand behind his back. He appeared to have Down syndrome and he looked like he was in on some joke because he was trying to keep from laughing. I smiled at him.

“Hi,” I said.

He giggled and asked, “Are you Miss Leigh Benoit?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“This is for you.” He pulled his hand out from behind his back. He was holding a yellow rose and, as he presented it to me, his smile grew even wider to reveal a small gap where a baby molar used to be.

“Oh, well thank you!” I was flattered and baffled.

“My daddy said you like yellow roses.”

“Who’s your daddy?”

He pointed at a tall, dirty blonde, hazel-eyed officer leaning against the front desk. I smiled right away, flattered that such a good-looking man would want to give me a yellow—
how’d he know I like yellow roses?
Then it hit me. My jaw dropped. The little boy giggled again and ran back to his daddy, who scooped him up and held him against his strong shoulder. The boy giggled and buried his face in his daddy’s neck. I walked over to them, still a little stunned.