The Gates of Evangeline (28 page)

“Wait a minute.” He leans back against the counter, and I realize with a sinking feeling that my confession made sense to only one of us. “Was there a body, or did you have a bad dream?”

“There
was
a body. There were bones. It's all over the news, haven't you seen?” I don't have time to clarify, however. Someone is knocking urgently on Noah's door.

I find Benny on the front step, out of breath and all in a panic.

“Benny? What's wrong?” But I already know, can read it on his face. Something more powerful, more important than my dreams of death.

“Baby's comin',” Benny gasps. “You phone workin'? We gotta call an ambulance.”

I reach for my keys. Noah and I can talk about bones and premonitions later. “I'll get you guys to the hospital.”

“Leeann said we can't move 'er,” Benny says in a rush. “The head's comin' out.”

I freeze. “Oh my God. Noah!”

He's already sprinting back toward the driveway with his phone. “I'll call an ambulance and wait by security.”

Benny and I race back to his cottage, where he leads me past mounds of Bailey's toys and piles of dirty clothes, then over to the bed. Paulette lies back, bare from the waist down. Panting. Legs spread. Sure enough, a strip of baby head is visible between her legs.

My heart lurches.

Leeann stands at the foot of the bed looking surprisingly composed. “Don't you worry, Paulie,” she croons. “We gonna help this li'l boy get born. You almost there. Next contraction, you give it all you got.”

Paulette acknowledges her with a moan.

EMS will never make it in time. I check my phone for a signal, hoping to search “emergency birth,” but no luck. I rack my brain for everything I know about childbirth, but it's not much. I was in a hospital when I had Keegan, under anesthesia, surrounded by trained professionals who could respond to any emergency. What do I know about delivering babies?

Leeann, meanwhile, doles out instructions, the growing thickness of her Cajun accent the only sign of her anxiety. “Benny, you help 'er sit up,” she says. “Baby'll come out easier if she not flat on 'er back. Get right behind 'er.”

Benny hops obediently onto the bed and eases Paulette into an upright position.

“Now hold 'is hand, honey,” Leeann tells her. “And when it's time to push, you squeeze dat hand like you mean to break it.”

“Do you have
any
idea what you're doing?” I hiss.

“I'm the oldest of six,” she says. “My mama had fast labors. Won't be the first baby I seen born in a bed.”

“What if something goes wrong?” Paulette could start hemorrhaging. The cord could get wrapped around her son's neck. And what if he's not breathing? I can more or less remember how to do CPR on adults and children, but the rules are different for infants.

“It's gone be fine,” Leeann says resolutely. “A body knows what to do.”

Paulette lets out a long, guttural roar. A contraction. She squeezes Benny's hand and bears down with all the force she can muster. Her face is damp and contorted, her eyes in another world.

I try not to look at the blood.

“You doin' fine, Paulette,” Leeann says. “This is it, yeah. Time for you baby join da world.”

When Paulette closes her eyes, I can feel her resolve, her need to eliminate all stimuli except the sensation of this baby. I grab a clean towel, getting ready.

“I see 'im!” Benny breathes. “He comin'!”

I see him coming, too.

Leeann reaches for the slick, hairy head straining to get out. The baby is close. So close. Leeann is there, fingers on his gooey head, trying to ease him out without tearing his mother. There's a brief rest period, then another round of contractions. Can this baby fit? It seems impossible. He's big. Too big. Except he's moving, descending, millimeter by millimeter, brought forth by his mother's sheer strength of will.

Paulette bellows, and then Leeann finds herself with a full head in her cupped hands. There's blood and mess everywhere as she slides this brand-new creature out and wraps him in the towel I provide. The umbilical cord is gray and gelatinous, but Leeann tells me not to cut it yet.

“He look all right?” Benny calls from the bed.

I study the baby. He has that sort of swollen, waterlogged look that newborns get, but I'm pretty sure that's normal. Leeann uses the towel to remove any lingering muck from his nose and mouth. He offers a long, high-pitched cry in response. Definitely breathing.

“He's perfect,” I tell Benny, my eyes welling up. “Congratulations.”

Paulette's slumped back in bed like the victim of a violent crime, but she perks up somewhat when her husband lays her teeny son against her chest. She lifts up her shirt to nurse him, while Leeann covers the stained bedsheets with fresh towels.

“You still got the aftabirth,” she reminds Paulette. “You get that pushin' feelin', you just let it out nice 'n' easy.”

She's on top of things, Leeann. Twenty-three years old, but so together, so unafraid.

I move slowly away from the bed, dizzy.

Within minutes, emergency responders descend upon the scene. As Leeann gives them a breathless account of the birth, I drift away, no longer sure I'm inhabiting my own body. There's something about Paulette, how fully she experienced every excruciating moment, how present she was in her body, that makes me doubt my own physical existence. How could anyone ever think life would be easy when it comes so hard?

Outside, it hits me. The miracle of this beautiful baby. The permanence of my own loss. I crouch down by an oak tree and vomit. Even when there's nothing left, I keep retching.

Then there's a hand on my shoulder, Noah brushing the hair out of my face. I realize that I'm crying, noisy choking sobs I can't stop. He tries to rub my back, but I shrug him off.

“It's okay,” he tells me. “Darlin', it's okay.”

But it's not. My baby is dead, and that will never be okay. I spit on the ground one last time and rise to my feet. “You don't understand.”

“Shhh.” Noah engulfs me in a hug I can't escape. “You don't have to explain. I get it.” His mouth is against my ear, almost whispering. “You miss him. Of course you miss him.”

I wriggle free and stare. “Who? Who are you talking about?”

“Your son.” The compassion in his face says it all.

I take a step backward and stumble on one of the oak tree's massive roots. “How do you know about my son? Have you been checking up on me?” The idea angers me, even if I've been poking around his own family more than I care to admit. “It was Rae, wasn't it? Rae and her big fat mouth. So this is what you guys were talking about the other day.”

“You could've told me,” he says, leaving Rae out of it. “Why didn't you tell me?”

I wipe snot from my face and brush away tears with the back of my hand. My stomach is still shaky, my mind swirling, and I can't process any of this. A baby was born, and a little boy died.
My
little boy died, but a baby was born even so. I saw a child enter this world, I heard his tiny cries. Just like
my
baby. Where is
my
baby?

I feel light-headed. “I need to be alone now.”

He reaches for me, making some objection, but I ignore him. I hurry back to my guest cottage and bolt the door. Plant myself in bed, face-first. When he knocks, I don't answer.

•   •   •

T
HE LIGHT CHANGES
. My lavender room turns purple-gray as the sun shifts. The outside sounds eventually dwindle away. Noah knocks on my door again, calls to me, but I stay put, not yet ready to talk Keegan.

I think about the day my son was born. He came five days after his due date, and the delay sent me into a nervous, impatient frenzy. I wished they would induce me, hold him to a schedule. When the contractions finally began, they took me by surprise. Labor hurt. A lot. I hadn't expected it to hurt so much, not when so many women endured it, going back for seconds or thirds. Eventually the epidural did its magic, and in the end there was a baby in my arms. He was pink and puffy and a little grumpy about his eviction from my womb, but he was mine.

No one told me then,
He's yours, for four years. He's yours, but not for long.
I am not by nature an optimistic or hopeful person, but when I held my child, I believed absolutely in the future. His future.

I think about calling Justine. How can you pray to a God, I want to ask, who is so unfair? How can you look in Didi's empty bedroom and see any reason, any purpose? It isn't a rhetorical question—I really want to know the answer. Justine told me that prayer gives her comfort, but I can't imagine seeking solace from the being who orchestrated my misery. God's the one doling out the suffering, if you believe in Him. How do people pray without getting pissed off?

I roll over in bed and stare up at the ceiling. Take several deep breaths. Feel my anger subsiding. I think about breaking out the old Deveau Bible, searching for answers in its pages, but who am I kidding? Those stories sound ridiculous to me. Instead, I go through the box of Andre's things and take out his book of Shakespearean sonnets. I could use something beautiful right now.

I flip through the pages, pausing at a few that he bookmarked with strips of lined paper. I breeze past a few poems about the peaks and valleys of love, then stop when I reach Sonnet 126. I recognize the opening line:
Oh thou, my lovely boy.
It's the Shakespeare Andre quoted in the boat. He must've read this book many times. As I close the book, I notice again the message on the title page.
For Andre on his 18th birthday. Hope you enjoy these as much as I did.—Sean.

A birthday gift from Noah's father. Interesting. I lift the book to my face, studying Sean's chicken-scratch letters, and something slides from between two pages in the back.

A torn sheet of lined notebook paper, folded in half. But this isn't another bookmark. It's a letter. The writing, made by a blue ballpoint pen that was running out of ink, matches Sean's messy handwriting. I read through it quickly once, then slowly a second time, my breath catching in my throat as I start to fully grasp the implications.

So here I am, finally. Done with the army, a free man. You've got to know by now how crazy I am about you. It's time to make a decision about who you are. I can't watch you compromise yourself every damn day and say nothing. I think about you all the time and I want a life with you. It won't be the life you're used to, but it could be better. You can't live under Neville's thumb forever, him never knowing who you really are. There is so much more possible. I know being a Deveau means you're afraid of the tabloids, but if we leave the country, they'll leave us alone. I don't care what people think when they see us. If we don't fit with their ideas of love, that's their problem, not ours. Be strong and take what you want. With or without you, I'm leaving tonight. You know where to find me.

Love you.

Sean

My mind reels. Sean Lauchlin. And Andre. This is big.

So here I am, finally. Done with the army, a free man.
It must have been written in June when he got out, during that final visit to see Maddie and Jack.
With or without you, I'm leaving tonight.
Could it have been his final day at Evangeline? The fight with his parents now makes sense. Maddie and Jack would've lost it when they learned what their son was up to. Andre was only eighteen years old, a full twelve years younger than Sean. And he was their employer's son. Maddie had raised him like her own. Add in the homosexual element, and you have the full trifecta of Lauchlin parental horror.

So what next? I can't confront Andre and make an enemy of the only Deveau who seems to like me. Detective Minot isn't assigned to the Sean Lauchlin case, and I can't turn the letter in to police without revealing that I know the identity of the bones recently found. I'll have to wait until they release the name. I still don't know how any of this ties in to Gabriel—if at all—but one thing is clear.

This letter contains a motive for murder.

I
can't disregard the impact this letter could have on Noah. Discovering that your father tried to run off with a teenage boy—and was likely killed for it—would disturb anyone. I still don't know who killed Sean, however, or where Maddie and Jack stood in all this, which makes it easier to justify not telling Noah yet. Too many questions remain to burden him with partial truths.

Instead, I photocopy the letter and leave it in Detective Minot's mailbox with a note. He risked his career to share classified information about Sean Lauchlin with me, an act of faith I repaid by neglecting to mention my relationship with Lauchlin's son. Hopefully this letter will help make amends. Maybe together we can get some answers.

With everything that's been going on, I'm glad when the pace at Evangeline seems to slow. Operations plod along without Paulette. Hettie seems to have plateaued for the time being, not improving but not worsening. I finish a chapter while Noah irons out the details of some local subcontractors he's hiring. Each morning when I wake up and see him sprawled beside me, I think he belongs there. And yet, I never talk about the future with him. Our time together is running out, but we don't say a word. We root ourselves firmly in the present.

It's different now. Not bad, but different. He knows about Keegan. I didn't think I could mention my child to anyone without dissolving into a weeping, emotional mess, but as I found with Justine Pinaro, there's relief, maybe even pleasure, in remembering Keegan out loud. Noah doesn't say much. He squeezes my hand or smiles. Mostly, he listens. He'll never understand my loss, of course, never love anything as much I loved my son. Though he's too well mannered to bring it up, I haven't forgotten that this man walked away from ten years of marriage precisely to avoid parenthood. He's not a Kid Person.

On Friday, Detective Minot calls. He skips any polite greetings. “That letter,” he says, “you found it in a book?”

I stand up from the kitchen table, where I've been hammering dutifully away on my laptop. “Andre's book,” I inform him. “In a box of Andre's stuff from high school.”

“That fits with the time Sean went missing.” He pauses. “You think Neville found out Sean was involved with his son?”

“I don't know. But if he found Sean and Andre running off together, he wouldn't have been too happy.”

“Neither would Sean's parents,” Detective Minot muses. “Maddie was a pretty devout Catholic.”

I pop open a can of Pringles, both hungry and intrigued. Might items belonging to the Lauchlins have gotten mixed up with Deveau family junk? Those Bible passages about sexual sin could've been Maddie's. “That relationship would've upset a lot of people, not just Neville,” I acknowledge. “But it's a starting point. Anything else going on?”

He sighs. “I tracked down Kyle Komen. The guy Andre said he was with the night Gabriel went missing.”

“Did his story check out?”

“All signs say yes.” Detective Minot doesn't sound happy about removing Andre from his suspect list. “Komen was surprised to see me. Said he hadn't heard from Andre in a good twenty-five years. But he was very definite about being with Andre that night. August fourteenth is Komen's birthday. He said he was out celebrating with friends when he met Andre.”

I wolf down some chips and try not to crunch directly into the phone. I wish I'd been there to meet Kyle Komen. I have so many questions about young Andre. “Did he say anything else?”

“Just that the kidnapping put a lot of stress on Andre. Komen said they dated a few months. He described Andre as a screwed-up rich kid. Said you couldn't help but feel sorry for him.”

“You believe him?”

“I looked Komen up,” Detective Minot says. “He seems okay. His birthday really is August fourteenth.”

“So why'd they split up?”

“Apparently Andre was always paranoid about someone seeing them together. He never wanted to go out in public.”

Funny. Andre's current boyfriend has similar complaints.

“He sounds legit,” I concede, forcing myself to put away the Pringles. I'm not usually a junk-food type, but Louisiana has aroused salt and sugar cravings I never knew I had.

“There's one other thing worth checking out,” Detective Minot tells me. “Roi Duchesne just turned up.”

He sounds less enthusiastic about this news than I feel. I don't care if Duchesne was cleared of any wrongdoing in Gabriel's kidnapping. A sketchy ex-con groundskeeper still might have heard things, might have noticed someone with an unhealthy interest in the toddler. And he might have known Sean Lauchlin. “He turned up where?”

“Right here in Chicory. Got pulled over for running a red light a couple days ago. I did some asking around. He's been working under the table as a bartender at the Cajun Canteen.”

I dimly recall seeing a divey place by that name not far from the highway. “Did you talk to him?”

“Not yet. The guy has served time, so he's not gonna cozy up with law enforcement.” Detective Minot sounds discouraged at the prospect of another uncooperative witness. “Still working out a strategy. There's gotta be something in it for him.”

“I could help. I could visit the bar.”

“No,” he says. “Hell no. Cajun Canteen is for lowlifes. It's not your scene. I mean that. And Roi's bad news. You stay away from that guy, okay?”

“Hey, if you don't want my help, I won't help you.” I'm hoping he doesn't realize the verbal gymnastics I'm employing. Meeting Roi would help
me
, and I'm not about to walk away from a chance to speak with him, even if it means braving a seedy bar for a night.

Detective Minot accepts my words at face value. “I'll let you know if anything comes of it,” he assures me. “Just one more thing, Charlotte.” His voice becomes gruff, almost fatherly. “This guy of yours? Noah Lauchlin? He could be a great guy. But that doesn't mean his family is.”

“I know.”

“And if he's not a great guy? Trust me. I'll find out.”

I grin. I'm pretty sure that when cops go background-checking your boyfriend, you're family.

•   •   •

T
HE
C
AJUN
C
ANTEEN
is small and smoky, with flickering neon signs that advertise various brands of beer. Its reddish-orange lighting imbues patrons with a sickly, sunburned quality that makes the drunk look drunker. Given Detective Minot's strenuous warnings, I expected the place to be rough-and-tumble, and the half-dozen customers on this Monday night are about what I imagined: men with craggy, hard-drinking faces, one burly, one built, one skinny with a rodent face and squinty eyes, all nursing their alcoholic beverage of choice. What I didn't anticipate was the complete absence of women.

I've tried to dress like I belong: tight jeans and a boob-hugging T-shirt, makeup that does not scream high-class. It's not my clothing that does me in, though—it's the very fact of my gender. All eyes slither over me, the only female in the room. I feel them forming judgments about the kind of woman who would come here alone at ten o'clock on a weeknight. Meeting someone? Hoping to meet someone? Hooking? I have half a mind to run for the door, but when I glance behind the bar, I see him. Roi Duchesne, counting a stack of bills. Not tens and twenties, but hundreds.

This can't be a good sign.

I take a seat at the empty bar, still contemplating flight. Behind me, the men are scattered around a few tables, and I know without looking that they're watching me.

“Hey, pretty lady,” someone calls. “Where you come from?”

Alcohol-themed establishments have never been my scene. I don't know the rules, don't know how to walk the line between bitchy and encouraging, so I nod in his general direction without answering the question.

Roi finishes counting his money and stuffs half in his pocket and half behind the bar. I've seen the mug shots from his arrest all those years ago. He was twenty-four, sullen and sleazy-sexy in that bad-boy, I-probably-beat-my-girlfriend way. Although he's put on weight over the years and grayed, he's still surprisingly fit and not unattractive, if you like tattoos. One thing I'm fairly sure of: his stack of cash did not come from the proceeds of this crappy little bar.

Detective Minot was right. I shouldn't have come here.

“What can I getcha?” Roi asks, his face impassive.

I can't leave without having a drink, so I tilt my head to the side and play with a lock of hair, summoning all my feminine charms for this man. “Umm . . . is a Corona Light too girly?”

He cracks a half smile. “Nah, sounds about right.”

He pulls a Corona from the cooler, pops the cap, and shoves a lime wedge down the bottle's narrow neck.

“Let me get that for you, baby,” the rat-faced guy across the room offers when Roi hands me my beer.

“No thanks. Always buy my own alcohol.” I don't bother looking at Rat Face or trying to sweeten the rejection. I didn't intend to spend my night fending off local creepers, but I'm realizing now that may be unavoidable. All the more reason to get friendly with Roi. Protection.

I lean toward him, ready to establish a cover story. “You didn't see a redhead in here before, did you? I'm supposed to meet a girlfriend.”

Roi assures me I'm the only lady who's been in tonight. Translation: the women of Chicory have the good sense to avoid this place. I bring up Detective Minot's contact info on my phone and send him a quick text.
At Cajun Canteen. It's sketchy, all right.

“Nice tat.” I point to the image of a snake half-coiled around Roi's neck. “Who did your ink?”

“Guy in Biloxi.”

“You from there?”

He shakes his head. “I was a trucker for a while. Passed through.” He pauses, almost reluctant to make conversation with me. Some bartender. “Where
you
from?”

“New York, originally. I'm down here working for the Deveaus.” I roll my eyes. “Rich people whining. We all need more of
that
in our life, right?”

He doesn't bite.

Fortunately, a grizzled man with a potbelly does. “Roi knows all 'bout the Deveaus, don'tcha, Roi?” he chuckles.

“Oh yeah?” I take a sip of my Corona, one elbow on the bar. “What kinda dirt do
you
have on them, 'cause I could tell you stories that'll make your head spin.”

Roi scowls, clearly annoyed at somebody sharing his business. “Used to work for 'em. Long, long time ago.”

“You probably worked for Neville, right? I heard he was all right. But I'm stuck with Hettie, who's gone loony, and her daughters, who are just bitches. And Andre . . . God, he's . . .” I trail off and let Roi fill in his adjective of choice.

“Fruity,” he says, and I gather that Andre's teenage attempts to appear straight were not as successful as his adult efforts.

My phone dings as a text comes in from Detective Minot.
WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?? I told you to stay out of that place. Coming to get you NOW.
I put my phone down and let out a long, put-upon sigh. “My friend's running late. She always does this to me.”

“You friend cute like you, or she da ugly one?” the grizzled guy asks.

“Cuter,” I say. “Way cuter.”

“Aw, now, I don' buy dat. You got some nice curves, honey, you do.”

I don't know what to say, don't know how to steer clear of these guys. When I don't respond, Rat Face stands up and yells from his table. “Hey! Where's you manners, New York? The man paid you a compliment!”

“Settle down there, Neg,” Roi says with a slow, measured smile that frightens me every bit as much as the unruly drunk guy. “You gonna scare her away.” He turns to me, suddenly more friendly, and I realize uneasily that he's decided he wants me around. “What kinda business you got with the Deveaus, sweetheart?”

“I'm a writer,” I tell him, then inwardly curse my honesty. “For a ladies' magazine,” I add, hoping that sounds less highbrow. “I write about clothes and hair and makeup.”

“They don't have enough clothes 'n' makeup in New York?” From the skeptical expression on Roi's face, I'm striking out.

“I just . . . thought this would be a fun story, you know?” I need an in, and I need one fast. “My aunt used to work for the Deveaus. Maybe you knew her. Violet Johnson.” It's the first name that pops into my head, and it must be a good one because Roi leans his head back and breaks into a low, rumbling laugh.

“Violet Johnson?” He chuckles. “Well, shit . . . Violet. Sure.”

From his smile, I wonder if he slept with her. Danelle did mention something about Violet knowing a lot of men. Or maybe Violet was involved in some kind of criminal activity with Roi. Drugs? But I don't see how that would tie in to Gabriel.

Roi looks me up and down as if searching for a family resemblance. “Your aunt, huh? She was a little spitfire, Violet was. Forgot she worked for the Deveaus.” He scratches his unshaven chin, a faint smile still playing on his lips. “She was workin' at the old Piggly Wiggly when I knew 'er. Never could keep a job, that girl. What she up to these days?”

“We're not in touch much . . .” I'm struck by his assumption that Violet is alive. If she really died in a car accident when Noah was a baby, wouldn't Roi have heard about it? “When's the last time you saw her?”

“Aw, we were just kids. I was, oh, twen'y, maybe. You tell her I said hi.”

I want to ask more about Violet, but don't want to arouse his suspicions, not when he's just warming up to me. “That's cool you knew my aunt,” I say. “And you worked for the Deveaus, too? They're driving me freaking crazy. How'd you deal?”

“Kept to maself.” He runs his thumb along the snake tattoo. “Did'n get too near Andre or Hettie. I know trouble when I see it.” He says nothing about getting fired or his six weeks in custody, and the other men seem to be too involved in their own conversations now to chime in.