Nancy K. Duplechain - Dark Trilogy 01 - Dark Bayou (12 page)

“Who is that?” I asked.

Lucas just shook his head. He flipped the picture down on top of the envelope. The next picture made us both gasp. It took me a second to realize it was the same man as in the first picture. In this one, he was on his back, naked, under water. His eyes were open in terror, frozen that way in death. His body was bloated and—

Lucas quickly flipped that picture down on top of the previous one. The next picture was a young black man wearing a Lafayette High cap and gown in his graduation photo. The next one was of him, impaled by a tree in a very bad car accident. Lucas flipped to the next picture and the next and the next. Each was a before and after.

“Damnit!” He said, stopping suddenly. I looked at him, waiting for him to tell me. “I took these pictures.”

“What?”

“Not the before pictures, but the ones …” he trailed off. “These were all crime scene investigations. I took them myself. They all happened in the last couple of years.” He flipped over another picture. “See?” I looked at it. It was a girl in a U.L. yearbook photo. “That’s the student I was telling you about.” He flipped to the next picture, and it pained him to see her with her head bashed in and her torso ripped open, just how he described her to me at the bar last night.

“But why give these to you? How would he even get them in his possession?”

“I don’t know,” he said, as he flipped through more pictures. I looked away, my stomach starting to churn. “Oh, my God,” he said, barely a whisper.

“What?” I turned to him. He quickly moved to hide the last few pictures from me. But he didn’t move quickly enough. I glimpsed the photo in his hand; David, looking dashing in his police uniform. I reached out for the picture, but Lucas held the stack away from me. I snatched it, anyway.

“Leigh,” he warned.

I flipped over to the next picture. It was Michelle in her uniform; standard police picture.

“Leigh. Don’t.”

I slowly flipped over to the next picture. It was the car accident. I stared at it long and hard, barely able to breathe. My eyes started to water. Lucas quickly pulled the pictures away from me. I was holding on too tightly, so he only managed to pull the accident picture from the top. The next picture took me by surprise and I was truly bewildered. It didn’t seem to fit in with the others. By the order in which things were going, the next picture under this one should have been a gruesome one, a horrible crime or accident, but I knew that wouldn’t be the case. It couldn’t.

I carefully lifted up the picture of my mother—the picture Dad took of her on our trip to Gulf Shores. Her hair was blonde and her smile warm and sunny. Around her neck was her cherished locket that contained pictures of her and Dad back when they were dating. I held my mother’s picture to my chest. The next one should have been her looking peaceful, the aneurysm taking her out instantly, no gory scene, just peace. But it
was
gory. It was enough to make me rock my head back onto the headrest. Lucas, alarmed, pulled the picture from me, along with the one under it, which was the last in the series.

“Oh, Leigh. Honey, I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t understand. She died of an aneurysm,” I said, mostly to myself. He was silent. He appeared to be just as dumbstruck as I was. And who wouldn’t be? You think someone died peacefully, only to come across hard evidence that contradicts that. Her body was a heap on an old, dirty wooden floor, a knife in her abdomen, blood pooling around her. It wasn’t so much the gruesome scene that was shocking. It was the expression on her face. I read true horror in her eyes. She was in agony, and she was terrified.

I started breathing in and out too quickly. I felt myself starting to hyperventilate. Lucas put his hand on mine, and I grabbed it hard and squeezed. He let me. I concentrated on not passing out, and then I heard him gasp. I twisted toward him and looked down at the last picture in his hand. Lyla was in her dress clothes, smiling with a fake scene of a lake behind her, a bright yellow sun shining through the trees. It was her latest school photo.

Clutching my mother’s picture to my chest, I hurried out the door, slamming it behind me.

“Leigh!” he called from behind the wheel. “Let me lead,” he pleaded as I got into my car. He turned on the single police siren on the top of his truck. The light flashed, but no sound emitted. He raced out of the parking lot, and I followed. In no time, we were doing seventy down the country roads. When we got back to I-10, we climbed to eighty-five, speeding west. I blindly fished for my cell phone in the pocket of my jeans. I pulled it out and dialed Clothilde, careful to keep my eyes on the road as much as possible. The phone rang seven times, but no answer. I cursed and hung up. We got to her house about fifteen minutes later. We parked our vehicles in the front, by the pond, and ran into the house together.

“Lyla!” I called.

“Lyla! Jonathan!” called Lucas.

There was no answer.

“Maw Maw!” Still no answer. “Back yard,” I said, already heading toward the back door. He ran out with me, and we scanned the garden and the grove of persimmon trees, but no one was there. I took off running for the shed and Lucas followed. As soon as we rounded the corner of the shed, I saw them. All three were carefully collecting eggs in the chicken coop. They stopped, alarmed when they saw us, out of breath, with desperation tattooed across our faces. Clothilde went back to her eggs.

“Y’all are back early.” She spoke with ease, and it seemed to calm the children, who continued their chore.

“Is everyone okay?” I asked, trying to gain composure.

“I’m going to make some egg salad in a bit if you want to help me.”

“Uh-huh. Okay. That sounds good.” I was still trying to pull it together.

“You having fun, Jon?” Lucas asked, sounding like there was nothing at all wrong. He was such a better poker face than I was, and I was jealous of that.

“Yep!” he replied, carefully cupping one egg with two hands as he gently placed it in the basket Lyla held.

“Lucas, are you ready to take the children?” asked Clothilde.

“I think Lyla should stick with us today,” I insisted.

“It’s okay. I can handle it,” he said. I looked at him and he smiled and nodded, comforting.

I mouthed the words, “Are you sure?” He nodded again.

“I won’t let anything happen to her,” he whispered.

“Eh?” said Clothilde.

“Yes, ma’am. Lyla? Jon? Y’all ready?”

“Yes, Daddy!” said Jon.

“Okay,” said Lyla, moping. Clothilde noticed the tone of her voice.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“I wanted to help you make the egg salad.”

Clothilde chuckled. “Your nannan will help me with that. But you can help me make a cake tomorrow.”

Lyla perked up. “What kind of cake?”

“Strawberry.”

“Yay!” With that, Lyla carefully handed me the basket of eggs. “I got window seat!” she yelled as she took off with Jonathan to wait by Lucas’ truck.

Lucas gave me a look of encouragement, and I felt a little more at ease, but not much. “What time would you like her back tonight, Miss Clothilde?”

“Six thirty is fine with me, if it’s fine with you.”

“All right. I’ll see y’all again at six thirty.”

“And stay for supper tonight, Lucas,” she added.

“Yes, ma’am.” He smiled at her and then at me. He disappeared around the corner, heading for his truck.

“You can go put those eggs in the ice box for now.”

“Hmm?” I said, not paying attention. I was too busy worrying a hole in my brain over what horrible accident could possibly await Lyla. But in all honesty, I believed she was safer with Lucas than she was with me.

“The eggs! Put them in the ice box.” She was back to being the ornery old lady I’ve come to know and loathe.

“Yes, ma’am,” I echoed Lucas.

“Here,” she said, handing me her basket. “Put those in, too. When you’re done, we have to go.”

“Go where?”

“Where I was planning on taking you today. We just soon go now and get it over with. I just have to make a quick call before we go.” She slowly headed back to the house. Her knees looked weaker than ever, and it looked like she was pushing herself again. I caught up to her.

“Don’t you think you should rest today?” I asked.

“Don’t tell me what I should do!”

“I was just thinking of you!” I snapped. She was taken aback.

“Well, I don’t need to rest,” she said, softer this time. “Things need to be done.”

* * *

“This is it,” said Clothilde.

I pulled up to a small house that looked like it was old sixty years ago. Now it was certified ancient. I stopped the car on the grassy driveway and took in the overgrown shrubs and weeds that overpowered the house. There were several Chicken Trees on either side of the one-story structure, the long branches seeming to clutch its frame like bony fingers grasping a secret treasure.

“This is it?” I asked, and Clothilde noticed the sarcasm in my voice.

“Yes! This is it!” She opened the door. It took her a couple of tries to get out of the seat, but she managed. She got out, closed the door and hobbled towards the once-white front steps which were stained green from the overcrowding weeds. With a heavy sigh, I followed her.

She knocked on the door, and it seemed an eternity before someone came to open it. When it did open, I saw a small, elderly black man, barely taller than Clothilde. Much to my surprise, he was wearing standard priest’s clerics. His collar was loose, the top button undone, and he reeked of alcohol. It took me a second, but I remembered him as the priest at David’s and Michelle’s funeral. He looked at Clothilde and grinned from ear to ear.

“Comment ça va, chère?!” he said to her.

“Ça va bien,” she replied.

He looked at me for a moment, confused and a little suspicious.

“You remember my little granddaughter, Leigh-Leigh,” was what I thought she said in French. The man’s face lit up, and he clapped his hands together.

“Leigh-Leigh!” he said, and reached out to hug me. Before I could react to this stranger, he had me in a full embrace. I held my breath and was grateful when he released the hug.

“It’s actually just ‘Leigh,” I said as I exhaled.

“Leigh-Leigh, you remember Father Ben Olivier, don’t you?” said Clothilde. I politely smiled at Father Ben and shrugged my shoulders.

“Aw, she’s not going to remember me,” he said, still smiling. “Leigh, you were just a tee tiny little girl when I saw you last. I gave you your first communion. Y’all come in,” he offered, as he held the door for us. Clothilde went right in. I followed, but didn’t want to.

The living room was littered with old books and dust. The yellowed pages of the leather-bound tomes gave off a musty odor. Behind the odor was the smell of stale alcohol and mildew. There was a sofa in the middle of the room. The stuffing was coming out in several places and it had huge, dark stains on it. The coffee table in front of the sofa had cracked glass and one of the wooden legs was taped back together where it had clearly broken. There were quite a few cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling. I could see the kitchen from the living room. There were old, dusty dishes stacked in the rusted sink. And I swore I could make out rat droppings on the counter. There was no way anyone lived here.

“Y’all sit,” said Ben. Clothilde sat without another thought. I, on the other hand, thought long and hard about sitting on that sofa.

“Leigh! Sit!” ordered Clothilde. To avoid a lecture later, I did as I was told, but was glad I had on a pair of jeans. Ben sat on an equally-unappealing leather recliner on the other side of the coffee table.

“So,” I began, “Do you live here?” Ben laughed loudly, and I even saw Clothilde crack a smile at that. They both exchanged a brief conversation in French and laughed again. From what I could gather, he was saying something like, “Who the hell would live here?”

“I live in the rectory at St. John’s,” he assured me.

“Oh,” I said, feeling foolish. “Then, who’s this house for?” Ben’s smile faded and he looked at Clothilde for approval. She nodded.

“It belonged to Clovis Gautreaux but he’s dead now. He was a friend of ours.” When Ben said “friend,” he paused for a slight second, as if trying to decide if Clovis was indeed a friend. “He left us this house when he died.”