Jolie Blonde (Vigilare Book 3) (3 page)

Running inside, his body defensive and his eyes searching, Lon calls out, “Brianna? Brie, are you in here? Brie!” Sprinting from the kitchen into the main room, he stops, turning circles, dazed at the ramshackle abode. Chairs and tables flipped, every drawer and bookcase upended, their contents scattered about. “Brianna!” he calls, catapulting up the stairway to her bedroom.

“Brie, where are you?” Ripping the covers from her bed, only to find it empty, he hears a muffled voice from the ceiling above.

“Lon. Lon, I’m up here!” The sound of hands and knees pitter-patter in the direction of the bedroom closet.

He wings the closet door open, wrestling with the large, square overhead board leading to the attic crawlway. “Brianna,” he growls, hoisting the plank above his head, his torso quickly following.

“Lon,” she cries, meeting him at the entry, her trembling arms wrapping about his shoulders.

“I gotcha,” he comforts, pulling her from the dark, dingy space. Their feet hitting the floor, he supports her weight. His hands tenderly comb through her hair and down the sides of her face as he looks her over. “What happened? You okay?”

“Burglars,” she pants, her chest heaving up and down. “Where are my parents? Oh, thank God you’re here.” She wraps her arms around him. “I was sleeping. I heard something downstairs. I thought it was Mama and Daddy.” She pulls away, explaining, her sentences jumbled and ill-formed. “Men in black masks. I saw them. I don’t think they saw me. I ran. The closet. The attic. Lon, I was so scared.” Her face distorts as tears fall from her eyes.

“It’s okay.” He coddles her to him, holding her against his chest, now frightened himself with the thought of what could have happened to her. “I’m here. It’s okay. Shh,” he calms her cries, stroking her back. “You did good. You’re a smart girl, Brie. To go to the crawlway like that.”

“I didn’t dare come out. And I didn’t think to grab the phone. To call 9-1-1. It all happened so fast. Where are my parents?” She pushes off of him, bolting for the stairs.

“They’re fine, Brie.” Lon follows after her. “They’re still at the river. Your dad called his team to meet them. He sent me back to stay with you.” He takes the stairs two by two, catching up to her. “With strict orders to sleep on the couch, of course,” he adds.

“The couch,” Brianna repeats, looking at the large leather rectangle, tipped up on its end, the cushions cut to shreds. “Mama is going to be so upset,” she laments, her eyes taking in the damage of the break-in.

Her words trigger Lon’s acute attention to the scene. “Burglars don’t cut up expensive stuff,” he marvels at the once exquisite couch. “They take it.” His eyes fall on broken vases and thousands of dollars’ worth of original artwork still lining the walls. “Does your father have a safe, Brie?”

She takes his hand, leading the way to her father’s study where his safe resides. “Oh no,” Brianna weeps, kneeling on the floor of the doubly trashed
man cave.
Her hands pick up the fractured pieces of a clay paperweight. “Daddy’s had this for years. It was the first thing I ever made him.”

Lon inspects the already open safe, its contents pilfered, a stack of money and a handgun residing. “Definitely not a burglary,” he mutters to himself. His hands rummage through an empty manila envelope stamped CLASSIFIED in bright red letters. “This Astrobiologist stuff your dad does…is it dangerous?”

“No,” Brianna dismisses. “Top Secret, maybe. Not dangerous.” She picks up the receiver to the phone on her father’s desk. Her attempt to call for help is stifled with the absence of a dial tone. “Phone’s dead.” She looks to Lon warily.

He grabs her hand, his
spidey senses
tingling. “We gotta get out of here.” Brianna stalls. “We’ll call the police from the neighbors’. We shouldn’t be here, Brie.”

She gives in, following behind him. “What are you saying? You think someone my father works with did this? Why would they do that? They’re all on the same team.”

Lon shrugs. “Happens all the time in the movies.”

“Yeah, because we live in the movies,” Brianna scoffs, still disbelieving of his skeptical conclusion.

Sirens wail briefly from outside, coming to a halt as the doors of a police cruiser shut, a brisk cadence of footsteps trail up the concrete walk.

Brianna hastens her pace toward the front door. “Oh, thank God. They’re here.”

Lon lunges his body up against the large wooden frame, protesting, “How do they know? We didn’t call.”

Knock! Knock! Knock!
The sound is loud and urgent. “Orleans Parish Sheriff’s Department,” a deep male tone identifies itself.

“Lon,” Brianna scolds, her voice at a whisper. “I don’t care
who
called them just so long as they’re here.” She pulls at his arm.

He resists, staying put, his head turned to the side. “Who sent you?” He questions the voice from outside.

“Alonzo Geoffrey Castille,” Brianna balks, using his full name. “What has gotten into you?” She fights with him for the door handle.

“There’s been an accident,” the deep voice on the exterior explains.

Lon and Brianna push and pull against the door, Brianna ultimately winning out. She eyes Lon, reprimanding, her expression turning thankful with the sight of the two men before her in uniform. She extends her arm into the grand room, an invitation for them to enter, fully prepared to give her testimony of the break-in.

The men hold their positions at the door, their body language professional, their expressions apologetic. “Are you Brianna Bentley?”

Now able to add a face to the rooted tone, Brianna nods, her hopeful spirit decelerating with their concerned expressions.

The deep-voiced deputy respectfully removes his high hat, prompting his rookie partner to do the same with a nudge of his elbow. Clearing his throat, he continues, “There’s been an accident, ma’am. It’s your parents.”

Brianna looks to Lon, his suspicious assistance suddenly warranted.

“Where?” Lon inquires, his hand supportive and coming to rest in the small of her back.

“By the river. Marsh Creek.” The deep-voiced deputy continues, “Their car must have veered off the road.”

“Veered
off the road?” Lon questions.

“Are they okay? Can you take me to them?” Brianna’s fearful voice cracks.

The deputy looks down momentarily before returning his somber eyes to hers. “They were pronounced dead at the scene, ma’am. I’m so sorry,” his deep voice now soft and laced with sympathy.

“What?” Brianna’s words escape in a whisper, hopeful she misinterpreted the deputy’s sentiments.

“What kind of car?” Lon interjects, praying they have called on the wrong residence.

“A black Town Car,” the deputy answers.

Brianna’s knees buckle. Lon holds her up, her face pressed to his chest muffling her sobs. Lon and the deputy exchange a similar expression of helplessness.

The deputy clears his throat, his deep tone returning to official business, “We’ll need her to come to the Coroner’s Office.” He diverts his glance, eye contact quite difficult given the sensitivity of the moment. “To identify the bodies.”

Brianna cries out, her tears saturating Lon’s t-shirt.

“Shh,” Lon soothes, unable to release the comforting words—
It’s okay—
fully understanding that it’s most definitely not okay.

“We’ll give you a moment,” the deputy instructs, he and his partner retiring to the parked cruiser.

Several nights later, the sun crawls behind a grove of wide-based, towering cypress trees, its rays glowing through their sparse shade. At the Castille residence, located in the deep woods of the bayou south of New Orleans, Lon quietly approaches the door to his room. Leaning against its casing, his eyes beg a report from his mother who hums a soft melody while rocking back and forth in a hand-carved rocking chair.

Brianna lies beside her, in Lon’s narrow twin bed, finally able to rest in a peaceful slumber. The ceiling fan whirls on high, the small swamp cooler in the window inadequate in its cooling mechanism. Lon’s mind grows afflicted with what Brianna must think of the modest shack he calls home.

“She’s doing just fine, son,” his mother’s voice soothes, laced in its usually calm tone.

Winona Castille’s hands busily construct a dream catcher, adorning it with handpicked beads and feathers. Her Cherokee heritage not only vivid in her craft but undeniable in her appearance—caramel skin, high cheekbones, her thick and silky jet-black hair lightly trimmed with a few grays.

“Chasing away the nightmares?” Lon comments.

“We’re going to try.” Winona smiles at him, her hands keenly crafting.

“Don’t suppose there’s any way you could make one that works while she’s awake?” he says, wishing he could resolve the ominous fact that she will repeatedly awaken to her parents’ death.

“With time, son,” Winona answers, knowing the elusive concept to be the only remedy for a broken heart.

He notices the basin beside her bed. “She still sick to her stomach?”

“Getting better,” Winona acknowledges. “I dosed her with some ginger root in her tea. Takes a bit to fully effect.”

“Thank you, Mama.” Lon leans down, kissing her atop her head. “You want me to sit with her a while?”

Winona looks up at him, shaking her head. “I quite like it, the female company, even if just by her presence.” Her dexterous fingers tie a feather by its string to the center of the spider-webbed dream catcher.

Lon retreats to the front porch. Trekking out onto the makeshift wooden deck, he takes a seat beside his father, Alonzo Castille Sr., who leans over a bucketful of tonight’s dinner fare. With years of practice under his belt, Alonzo fillets fish at a swift rate, the silver from his knife flickering with his handiwork.

“Mama like dis one,” Alonzo’s Cajun accent easily transposing
th-
sounds to a smoothly enunciated
d.
He grins at Lon, propelling his chin forward, spitting the juices from his chaw into the marsh.

Lon eyes the plump mackerel kingfish, nodding his head in agreement. “Water’s high,” he remarks on the near-level tide at the edge of the deck.

“Makes fer good fishin’,” Alonzo says. “How she be?” He refers to their guest, Brianna.

“She’s in good hands,” Lon remarks of his mother. “She’s sleeping, finally.” Picking up a knife, he diligently follows his father’s visual instruction.

“Shore is a purdy femme,” his father compliments. “A real
jolie blonde.”
He hums the melody to the tragic Cajun waltz by the same name. “Nice ta finely meet her.” Alonzo glances at Lon, a reprehensible look.

Lon quickly diverts his eyes from his father, overly focused on the slippery resident in his hand. “Sorry, Pop.”

“Are ya?” Alonzo questions. “Sorry ’bout yer her’tage? ’Shamed of yer fam’ly?”

Lon huffs. “I’m not ashamed. She lives in a different world, that’s all.”

“Da same world Mama an me sacr’fice fer so you kin reap of its harvest,” Alonzo points out, referring to the private school their son attends, the same school Brianna attends. “Each gen’ration, better off dan da last.”

“I know, Pop.” Lon hangs his head, now ashamed of himself for a different reason.

Splat!
Alonzo’s chaw disappears into the water. “Formal edge’cation was not impo’tant ta ma daddy. He gave me a trade. Taught me how ta fish. Gave me da tools ta provide fer ma fam’ly.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Migh’ not be ideal, yer ideal. But ya never gone hungry. Never been widout clothin’ er shelter.”

“Pop, I know,” Lon reiterates, wishing for a change to their uncomfortable topic of conversation.

“Son, I’m not prouda bein’ a high schoo’ dropout,” Alonzo continues. “I don’ have da mos’ proper readin’ an writin’ skills, but I’m smart ’nough ta know da value of an edge’cation. One I’m committed ta providin’ fer you.”

Lon’s chin further touches his chest, effectively shamed.

Alonzo dips his hand into the water-filled bucket, whirling it around, freeing it from fish gut residue. “Hell, when I was yer age, I was workin’ fool-time. Tryin’ ta make a name fer ma self. Now, I work, so you don’ have ta. Affordin’ you da lux’ry ta be a kid. Ta spen’ time wid yer studies. Pre parin’ fer college. Come dis nex’ year, Mama an me will have ’nough saved ta pay yer college to’wishin’.”

“Yes, sir. And I’m thankful for that.” Lon purposely meets his father’s gaze, a respectful and gracious expression exuding.

“Thankful ’nough not ta be ’shamed?”

“I’m not ashamed.” Lon shrugs. “Maybe I felt a little inadequate. I mean, you should see where Brie lives, the house she grew up in. I just didn’t know if she would be comfortable here.” He throws his arms out in the direction of the all-encompassing bayou.

The sun setting casts a peaceful yet twilight glow about the murky water. The routine and oft overlooked indigenous sounds of the swamp now call Lon’s attention—
Cricket, ga-gulp, splash, chacha-chacha-chacha.

“It’s not exactly modern-day life on the bayou, Pop,” Lon follows up.

“Doncha spose dat was her call ta make?”

“Yes, sir,” he answers, his concentration remaining on the fish he fillets, eye contact still quite difficult in this situation.

“Awful shame ’bout dat youn’ girl’s folks.” Alonzo shakes his head mournfully.

“Yeah, about that,” Lon begins. “Something doesn’t quite add up, Pop. Mr. Bentley is…was,” he corrects, “a wise, cautious man. Doesn’t make sense that he would fall asleep at the wheel. Or just veer off the road into the river like that.” Lon wipes his brow with the top of his forearm, returning to his filleting duties.

“Ax’dents happen all da time, son. In da blink of a eye. Dat’s why I rib you so hard ’bout yer drivin’. Kill me if anyting like dat ever happen ta you.” Alonzo’s hand slaps off his chest over his heart.

“But the break-in,” Lon continues, “doesn’t make sense. I’m at the river with Mr. Bentley and his wife. He calls his team. Sends me to check on Brianna. You think someone was tipped off that he was out, and the house was open for the picking?”