Altar of Eden (32 page)

The uptown campus of Tulane University rose amid clusters of turn-of-the-century mansions, magnolia-shaded parks, and college housing complexes. It was only a short ride on the St. Charles streetcar from Lorna’s Garden District home.

Still, for the past three days, she seldom left the neurology department on the fourth floor of the Tulane Medical Center. She paced the hall outside the room, anxious for the neurologist to finish his exam.

Jack had been airlifted here from the Thibodeauxs’ fishing boat. Lorna had gone with him during that flight, explaining to the doctors about his treatment. She glossed over many details but was honest about his condition.

Half the hospital departments had been through Jack’s room. Once here, he had been switched to a propofol infusion to maintain his coma, his EEG was monitored around the clock, and his body was hooked to a battery of equipment.

But today was critical. The doctors had been weaning him off the infusion all morning, slowly allowing him to wake while closely monitoring his EEG for any sign of continuing seizure activity. So far so good. But a bigger question remained.

What was left of Jack?

The neurologist seemed confident that there was no permanent brain damage, but after such an injury, he could make no guarantees. Jack could remain in a vegetative state or fully recover. But the doctor had warned that the more likely result was somewhere in between.

So they waited.

Randy sat down the hall with Jack’s mother and father. Kyle had gone down to the cafeteria to fetch them all more coffee. None of them had slept. In the trenches these past days, they had all grown closer.

During their vigil, Lorna had finally shared the whole story of that night with Tom, of the loss of her baby, the attempted rape, Jack’s rescue, and its tragic conclusion. Once she started, it had poured out of her. There had been many tears, on all sides, but in the end, just as much healing.

“You were just a child,” his mother had said, taking her hand. “You poor thing. Such a burden to bear all these years.”

The door to the room finally swung open, and a cluster of white coats and nurses flowed out. The neurologist came over. Lorna tried to read some clue from his face. Jack’s family joined her.

“We’ve taken him off the infusion,” the doctor explained with a sigh, “but we’re going to maintain a low-dose benzodiazepine drip as he wakes. We’ll also be monitoring his EEG and vitals.”

“Can we sit with him?” Lorna asked.

The doctor frowned at the large group. “One at a time.” He admonished them with a finger. “And not for too long.”

Lorna turned to the family.

Jack’s mother patted her arm. “You go on in, dear. You’re family now, too. Besides, if my boy wakes, he should see a pretty face first.”

Lorna wanted to argue, but she allowed herself this moment of selfishness.

She hugged Jack’s mother, then hurried through the door. Inside, a nurse stood by a bank of monitoring equipment. Lorna crossed and sat on a bedside chair. She had spent the night in that same seat, holding Jack’s hand, talking to him, praying.

She stared over at his pale face. She watched his chest rise and fall. Lines and tubes ran from under his sheets to machines that beeped and blinked. She leaned forward and took his hand.

“Jack . . .”

His hand twitched—causing her heart to jump. But was it in recognition or were the seizures starting again? Fearful, hopeful, she stood up, still grasping his hand. She leaned over him and stared down.

His chest rose heavily, then he sighed loudly.

His lids fluttered open, but his eyes remained rolled back.

“Jack,” she whispered down at him. She placed her other palm on his cheek. “Please . . .”

He blinked slowly—once, twice—then she found him staring back up at her. “Hey,” he whispered groggily.

She squeezed his hand. “Hey yourself.”

A ghost of a smile shadowed his lips. They just stared at each other. His eyes seemed to drink her in. Then his fingers tightened on hers with surprising strength. His expression became a mask of regret.

“What I said before . . .” he said hoarsely, his voice raw with exhaustion and maybe something more.

She stopped him. She understood the guilt buried in those two words.

Tom’s gone.

It had haunted both their lives, but it was time to free that ghost.

She leaned down, brushed her lips against his, and whispered into his breath. “But we’re here.”

Three months later, Jack was speeding down the waterway in his cousin’s airboat. The wind whipped his hair. His only companion, Burt, sat in the bow, his tongue lolling, his ears flapping. Jack guided the craft with deft ease and a light touch on the stick. He sat high in the pilot’s chair. The height allowed him to see over rushes, reeds, and bushes.

It felt good to get away from the city, from the station house. He was also tired of needles, rehabilitation appointments, and psychological tests. Besides a residual numbness in his left hand and the need to take a low-dose anticonvulsant tablet once a day, he had fully recovered.

Still, the best therapy of all could be found out here.

As the midday sun glared off the water he took a deep breath of the rich bayou air, heavy and humid, redolent with brackish water, yet sweetened by sedges and summer flowers.

As he raced deeper into the swamplands he again appreciated the stark and primeval beauty of these wide and trackless lands. He watched white-tailed deer bound away from the roar of his boat’s propellers. Alligators slipped deeper into nests. Raccoons and squirrels skittered up trees.

Rounding a bend, he slowed the airboat and let the engine die.

He needed a private moment to collect himself.

He let the boat gently rock as he listened to the life around him. Some considered the swamps to be a desolate and quiet place. That couldn’t be further from the truth. He closed his eyes, taking in the buzz of gnats, the chorus of frogs, the distant bark of a bull gator, and woven throughout it all, birdsong from hundreds of warbling throats.

After the events of last spring, Jack took moments like this to stop and appreciate the wonders around him. It was as if he had new eyes. In fact,
all
his senses seemed sharper. Not because of any residual effect from his illness, but simply because of his renewed appreciation for life.

This particular moment was especially significant for him.

His life was about to change in ways he couldn’t imagine, and he needed to prepare for it. But he also sensed the pressure of time.

Lorna was waiting for him—secretly summoned out here under mysterious circumstances—and he dared not keep her waiting any longer than necessary. She still had much work to do over at ACRES as the new facility was under construction.

“Better get going,” he said to Burt.

His hound thumped his tail in agreement.

Taking a final deep breath, Jack started up the airboat’s engine and shot down the waterways and channels. It was a maze through here, but he knew the way by heart. Skirting around an island, he reached a channel that ran straight toward a large log home, newly rebuilt after the fires.

He flew straight for the pier, then, at the last moment, angled the craft broadside and raked the bow to a perfect stop alongside the dock. A familiar round shape dressed in coveralls and an LSU ball cap rose from a chair and helped him tie off the airboat.

Burt bounded onto the dock and greeted him like an old friend.

“ ’Bout time you got here, Jack. Your little filly was growing restless. Thought I might have to tie her down.” With a final tug, he cinched the mooring rope to the pier’s stanchion.

“Thanks, Joe. Where is she?”

“Where do you think?” He waved beyond the log home, to the grounds of what was formerly known as Uncle Joe’s Alligator Farm. “She’s off with Stella and the kids.”

LORNA STARED IN
amazement at the sight. She never grew tired of it. She stood on the observation deck above the spread of ponds and elevated walkways. A glass of lemonade sweated on the log rail. Below, children ran and played, bounded and jumped. Several hung from trees.

The ponds no longer held any alligators. They’d all been moved, including Elvis, who now was a star attraction at the Audubon Zoo in the city. To support his acquisition, a major marketing campaign was under way. Its slogan could be found emblazoned on billboards, buses, and streetcars all across New Orleans. It was only two words:
Elvis Lives!

Stella climbed the steps with the youngest child in her arms. Only three months old, the girl was already walking on her own—though she plainly still liked to be carried.

“Eve is getting heavy,” Stella said, hiking the child higher in her arms.

“I can see that.”

“We’re weaning her off the bottle like you suggested, but she’s fighting it.”

“They always do.” Lorna smiled and nodded below. “I have to say, you’re doing a great job. They all look so happy.”

Stella matched her grin. “Oh, they have their usual scrapes and bruises like any kids, but I’ve never seen a more loving bunch. You should see how they dote on Igor, Bagheera, and the two little monkeys. They keep stuffing them with treats.”

Lorna laughed. She had never doubted the brood would find a good home here, but she was surprised how quickly they had adjusted to their new environment and circumstances.

Before leaving the Thibodeauxs’ boat, Lorna and the others had made a pact to keep the existence of the children secret—at least until they were strong enough and the world ready enough to handle such news. The Thibodeauxs had proved skilled at getting the children through the bayou in secret. No one appeared to be any the wiser, and when it came to keeping things hidden from sight, there was no better place.

Lorna had only confided in two others—Carlton and Zoë—knowing she’d need their help in establishing this secret sanctuary. It had been an easy sell. ACRES had been started to protect and nurture endangered species.

Lorna watched the children play.

Was there any species more endangered, more at risk?

To help matters, the project had the backing of an open checkbook from a silent partner.

After reaching U.S. shores, Bennett had turned himself over to the authorities. He did not hold back, exposing all the crimes done in his name, opening the balance sheets to Ironcreek—but as promised, he had remained silent about the children. He told authorities that the facility on Lost Eden Cay had been a viral lab undergoing human trials, that a weaponized organism had gotten loose, and that it became necessary to burn it all down.

Afterward, Bennett had been moved to a high-security facility while he assisted the Justice Department in rooting out other guilty parties both within the government and out in the private sector. His testimony continued to shake up Washington.

Hopefully for the better.

But Bennett’s largesse didn’t end there. Through the use of dummy corporations and financial channels that made Lorna’s head spin, he secretly financed both the rebuilding of ACRES and the establishment of this secret sanctuary.

Lorna understood the motive behind this generosity.

Bennett had started down a path to his own redemption.

If she ever doubted it, she only had to turn around. At Bennett’s personal request, a message had been carved into the lintel above the new home’s doorway.

MATTHEW 19:14

She had to look up that particular Bible verse. When she did so, it left her smiling. She found it entirely fitting.

Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.

Lorna stared across at the joyful play and youthful innocence. Her smile grew as she took it all in. While this might not be Heaven, it was definitely a little slice of Eden.

Footsteps sounded behind her.

She turned to find Jack crossing toward her, Burt trotting at his side. The shock must have been all over her face. She hadn’t known he was coming.

Stella retreated toward the house with Eve in her arms.

Jack took her place. He was dressed in a crisp black suit, his hair wet and combed back, like he’d just stepped out of the shower—though he still had a day’s worth of stubble over his chin and cheeks.

She was confused. “What are you doing here?”

He lifted his arms to encompass this new Eden. “Where better than
here?
”

She still didn’t understand. “For what?”

As answer, he dropped to one knee.

I’ve never been a firm believer in the adage “write what you know.” What’s the fun in that? Still, as a veterinarian, I also always wanted to feature a book with a
veterinarian
in the lead. Still, even in this case, that old adage doesn’t hold true. I had to lean on many people to bring this story to life. First and always, I must acknowledge my critique group: Penny Hill, Judy Prey, Dave Murray, Caroline Williams, Chris Crowe, Lee Garrett, Jane O’Riva, Sally Barnes, Denny Grayson, Leonard Little, Kathy L’Ecluse, Scott Smith, Chris Smith, and Will Murray. And an extra big thanks to Steve Prey for all his great help with the maps. Beyond the group, Carolyn McCray and David Sylvian keep life out of my way so I can write. Dr. Scott Brown was instrumental with some of the medical details, and Cherie McCarter continues to be a wellspring of information (including an article about a snake born with a clawed leg . . . love that!). And a special thanks to Steve and Elizabeth Berry for their great friendship (and for Liz, since it’s missing from this book, I thought I’d put it here: “sluiced”). Lastly, a special acknowledgment to the four people instrumental to all levels of production: my editor, Lyssa Keusch, and her colleague Wendy Lee; and my agents, Russ Galen and Danny Baror. They’ve truly been the foundation under this author. And as always, I must stress that any and all errors of fact or detail in this book fall squarely on my own shoulders.