The Gates of Evangeline (12 page)

“Roi Duchesne,” says Sydney automatically, “that man they arrested at first. He was shady.”

“But he didn't do it,” Brigitte protests. “They proved that.”

“She asked about weird people and Roi
was
.”

“I assume you were both questioned several times, too,” I say. “That must have been exhausting.”

“Oh, it was
endless
.” Brigitte clutches her chest as if the very thought is too much for her poor nerves. “And then all that business about us passing out drunk—I had
one
glass of champagne that night.
One.
”

“Bridgie.” Sydney turns sharply to her. “Don't.”

My ears perk up. From what I understand, Sydney and Brigitte's alibi that evening has always hinged upon their supposed intoxication, a night spent unconscious and sick in the hotel.

“Oh, what does it matter?” Brigitte brushes off her sister's worries with a toss of her hair. “You think they'd come bothering us now? It's been thirty years.”

“I think you're forgetting what it was like dealing with a bunch of rabid journalists out to make a name for themselves,” Sydney says through clenched teeth.

But Brigitte has already moved on. She casts her sister a dreamy look. “You know who I was wondering about the other day? Sean Lauchlin.”

Sydney frowns. “Nanny and Daddy Jack's son? You thought
he
was suspicious?”

Could this be Noah's father, the guy who went AWOL?

Brigitte twirls a strand of hair around her finger. “He was around Gabriel sometimes when he visited.”

Sydney bursts out laughing. “Honey, Sean Lauchlin was not overly interested in Gabriel.
You
were overly interested in
him
.”

“I know I had a little crush,” Brigitte admits, “but think about it. He wasn't around a lot, and then he'd come back and just hang around the house all day with Mama and Gabriel or Andre or us. He could've done anything, and nobody would've thought twice.”

“He was in the army, sweetie, visiting Nanny and Daddy Jack on leave.” Sydney pats her sister on the shoulder. “He wasn't even around when Gabriel disappeared. Now we'd really better go.” Her expression indicates she finds the Sean Lauchlin hypothesis both childish and sad.

I disagree. “Do you remember the last time you saw Sean?” It's a long shot, but Brigitte does not disappoint me.

“June,” she answers immediately. “Right after we got out of school. He had some kind of fight with his folks, and he left. I always wondered what happened to him.”

“Stalker,” Sydney sighs, and grabs Brigitte by the hand, pulling her to her feet. “Lovely to see you again. Can't wait to read your book,” she tells me as she marches Brigitte out.

I flip off my recorder and stand alone in the study, listening to them call for their suitcases. What was Sean fighting with Maddie and Jack about? I wonder. And if Sean Lauchlin ditched Noah, his own son, in June, why come back for Gabriel two months later? Money, I'd assume. I'll have to ask Detective Minot if anyone ever looked at him as a suspect.

As I stand there in the study surrounded by expensive objects, all I can think of is Keegan, what he would have done to this room as a toddler. Climb the desk. Shimmy up the drapes. Track dirt on the upholstery. I wonder if this room was always so beautiful, so impersonal. Was this ever a house that
wanted
children, or did it just tolerate them until they were old enough to send off to boarding school?

Who would Gabriel have been, had he lived? A superficial socialite like his sisters? An uptight businessman ashamed of his true self like his brother? Someone even worse, even sadder?

I'm losing my way. Allowing morbidity to overwhelm my sense of purpose. I step into the hallway and shut the study door firmly behind me. If only death were something you could lock away in a single room. If only grief, like a kid in a long game of hide-and-seek, would grow bored, give up, go home.

•   •   •

T
HAT NIGHT
, for the first time in months, it happens. The sweet dark. The fading out. A message coming through.

I must have been asleep at some point, but now I'm dimly aware of my body. Blankets, pillows, the squishy mattress in my guest cottage. I shed these physical sensations one by one. Step past them into what's waiting.

Then I'm so alert it hurts. My head rings like someone's turned the volume button all the way up. I blink away the noise. Allow myself to calibrate.

Pay attention. You're going to see something important.

A long hallway. I'm making my way down a red-and-white-tiled floor. Blue lockers line the walls, and the sickly fluorescent lighting makes the colors unnaturally bright and jarring.
A school.

The hall ends abruptly with a white concrete wall, blank except for a large round clock. Beneath it, a girl with shoulder-length red hair stands, as if waiting for an appointment. Fifth, sixth grade, maybe? She looks young but carries herself like a much older child, glancing at the clock, the floor, then back at the clock again with a very adult anxiety.

I try to get her attention.

Hello?

She looks up, and for a moment our eyes meet. She's wearing lip gloss, and her nose and cheeks have a smattering of freckles. Her mouth opens, as if she wants to tell me something. From somewhere in the bowels of the school, a bell begins to ring, loudly and insistently, almost like an alarm.

The girl covers her mouth, suddenly looking ill, and makes a beeline for a door marked
GIRLS
. I follow her inside, concerned, and find a restroom with three stalls, a sink, and a mirror. I catch a whiff of lemon-scented toilet cleaner and notes of old urine.

Are you okay?
I ask, but the stalls are empty. The girl is gone.

Suddenly my stomach begins to churn. I'm going to be sick. I step into one of the stalls and drop to my knees, vomiting. I gag, heave, spit. When I look into the toilet bowl, I see long red hair floating in a slow, ominous circle.

As I back out of the stall, eyes on the swirling hair, I feel someone behind me. I spin around, realize it's the mirror. My own reflection gazes back at me, bald. My scalp is smooth as an egg.

I gasp. Hold my head for a moment. Stare at my hands. Fistfuls of red hair spill from my fingers, littering the floor.
No, no, no,
I say.
No.

It'll be okay soon.
Someone is patting my back, consoling me.
It's almost over.

The girl is with me. She's the one who has lost her hair, not me. No hair, no eyelashes, and just a trace of eyebrows. I recognize her only by the lip gloss and the faded sprinkling of freckles on her nose. She pats my back again, but her big eyes against that pale, alien-looking skull are anything but comforting.

And the setting has changed. We're in a dim pink room now, standing beside a neatly made hospital bed. Nearby, an IV drip adds an air of menace. I don't think it's an actual hospital, judging from the whimsical balloon bedspread, the ballet-shoes lamp, or the shelves of teddy bears. Her bedroom, maybe.

Are you dead?
I whisper.

She shakes her head.
I'm sick.

Are you going to get better?

She shakes her head again, and she looks so old, so tired.
I'm not strong enough. I've been sick too long.
She sighs heavily. M
y mama and daddy are sad all the time 'cause a me.

Her voice, I note, sounds local. Is she from Chicory?

It's not your fault,
I murmur.
Sometimes people just get sick.

Like your li'l boy,
she says, and I freeze.

You know him? You know Keegan?

She climbs into the hospital bed, ignoring my question, and settles herself under the covers.
I don't have much time. Will you tell them? My mama and daddy? They're gonna wanna be here.

But I'm not ready to do her any favors, not without an answer.
Do you know my son?

She leans back against the pillow and closes her eyes.
You wish you coulda been with him, don't you? You wish you coulda said good-bye.

Where is he?
I grip her shoulder harder than I mean to. The bone is heartbreakingly tiny.
Have you seen Keegan? Please, I want to speak to him.

She doesn't open her eyes again. Her voice is sleepy, distant.
One more day. I'm gonna give them one more day. Then I can go.

The light in the room turns inky and thick. I can feel myself rising out of the moment, moving away even as I try to hold on. All that remains is the sound of her, soft and faraway.
Tell my daddy, would you? Tell him four sixteen.

“Who?” I ask. “Who do I tell?”

My voice echoes throughout the dark cottage. I sit up, momentarily disoriented by the configuration of furniture, so unlike my bedroom in Stamford. My toes feel half-frozen, but my forehead and bangs are damp with sweat. Another disturbing dream of children. Another message. And the girl in my dream knew about Keegan.

Hope, wild and desperate, takes root within my chest. If I do what she wants, can she help me talk to him? Can I finally see my son? But I lost the picture before she could give me something concrete. I don't have a clue who the girl is, don't know how I'm supposed to track down her father. And even if I did, what would I say?
Hi, I'm Charlotte Cates. Your daughter came to me in a dream and told me she's going to die tomorrow. And do the numbers four and sixteen mean anything to you?

One thing's for sure: I can't sleep. I flip on the lights and power up my laptop, figuring I might as well do some work. That's when I notice the clock on my bedside table: 4:17.

When she said one more day, she meant to the minute.

F
irst stop in tracking down the dying girl: Evangeline's kitchen. Chicory's not small, but Leeann strikes me as the kind who knows people. I head over before breakfast and am instantly met with the smell of brewing coffee and Leeann's megawatt smile.

“Just in time!” She looks up from watering a pot of rosemary. “I'm fixin' to fry us up some beignets this morning. You had beignets before?”

“I don't think so. Are those a Louisiana thing?”

“Mm-hmm. You fry 'em up, sprinkle powdered sugar on top.” Her eyes roll up in her head. “Little piece a heaven.”

“So they're basically just fried dough? Like a funnel cake?”

“Oh no. Betta. You'll see. I got some chilled dough in the fridge all ready to go.” As she scurries about the kitchen gathering up her premade dough, powdered sugar, and cookware, I take the opportunity to pick her brain.

“Hey, so somebody told me a sad story about this sick little girl,” I say. “She's local, a redhead. I think it was cancer. She lost all her hair. I was thinking I'd like to help, but I forget her name.” I wander over to the herb cart and pinch off a chive to chew on as I wait for Leeann to identify my mystery child.

“Cancer, huh?” She dumps an insane amount of vegetable oil into the fryer. “Could be Lila Monroe. She died last year, left behind a whole house of chilren.”

“No, this was a kid.” I grope for more information, but there's not much to offer. “She's been through chemo, but it sounds like she just took a turn for the worse.”

Leeann sprinkles flour on a cutting board. “Sick kids break my heart. I dunno
what
I'd do if ma baby got sick.” She rolls the dough out until it's thin and begins cutting squares. “You know, Dr. Pinaro's girl got sick a few years back. There was a church benefit, I rememba. Don't recall if it was cancer. But I know they still got nurses goin' ova the house.”

That would explain why the girl was in a bedroom, not a hospital. Maybe she's in some kind of hospice program.

“Does Dr. Pinaro have a practice here in town?” I ask. “Where could I find him?”

Leeann laughs and drops pieces of dough in the sizzling oil. “Not that kinda docta. An' Dr. Pinaro's a lady. The superintendent of schools.”

“How old's her daughter?”

“Gosh, I dunno. Ten? Twelve?”

The age sounds about right. There's just one more thing. I'm not sure it matters, but the girl in my vision told me to speak to her dad, not her mom. “Is Dr. Pinaro married?”

“I think so,” Leeann says, eyeing the beignets, “but it's kinda confusin'. She's one a dem never took her husband's name.”

As another one of those who never took her husband's name, I like Dr. Pinaro already. I didn't figure you'd find any maiden-namers around Chicory, but superintendent of schools? Not too shabby. I press Leeann for more details but get nothing. She doesn't remember anything about the husband or where they live or even what Dr. Pinaro's first name is. I'm itching to go track her down, but for PR reasons I stick around long enough to eat some beignets.

As anticipated, they taste no different than fried dough, but I sing their praises for a full two minutes and Leeann nearly bursts with pride.

•   •   •

G
IVEN
D
R
. P
INARO
'
S JOB
in the public sector, I don't expect her to be hard to locate. Straight off, I find a photo of her on the town's web page: Dr. Justine Pinaro, a handsome woman, fiftyish, with short auburn hair. The red hair seems promising.

I call the superintendent's office, but the secretary informs me that Dr. Pinaro is on a leave of absence and they don't share employee information. No phone numbers for her online. She could have an unlisted number, or a number listed under her husband's name, or no landline at all. No e-mail addresses beyond her work e-mail, which bounces back with an automated reply. I search for her on various social networking sites, but she has no visible accounts. Archives from the local newspaper contain more than a dozen articles that include her name, but her comments on district decisions reveal nothing personal.

I need an address or phone number, or at least the name of her husband. What if Justine Pinaro isn't even the mom I'm looking for?

I try a people-finder website that searches public records. A Justine Pinaro does show up. Forty-nine years old; previous residences in Maylee, Georgia, and Eunice, Louisiana; relatives in Wyoming. To access any more information, I have to pay a fifty-dollar sign-up fee. Right as I'm breaking out my credit card, my computer freezes. When I reboot, I get an
OBJECT CANNOT BE FOUND
error message. Every subsequent reboot yields the same result.

“Goddamn it!” If I had a sledgehammer, my laptop would now be lying in mangled pieces.

I try to use my phone, but I'm barely getting a signal, and after fifteen minutes, the site still won't load. I head up to the house to beg Internet access off Jules.

The office door is closed. I knock lightly and press my ear to the door. He's in there, speaking in a tone that clearly indicates he's upset, but the only words I can make out are “too damn busy.”

“Lookin' for Mista Sicard?”

I whirl around and see the housekeeper, Paulette, watching me intently, one hand resting on her pregnant belly.

“I just need the Internet for a few minutes. My computer's down.”

Paulette's face is entirely unreadable. “Mista Sicard's takin' a personal call. Could be a bit.”

He must be fighting with Andre.

“You don't have Wi-Fi in your cottage, do you, Paulette?” I ask. “I'm in a bind here.”

She shakes her head, and I'm not sure that she knows what Wi-Fi is.

I start over. “Listen, I need to get in touch with the superintendent of schools.”

Paulette doesn't blink an eye or question me further; working for the Deveau family has taught her that much. “Aks Deacon 'bout it,” she suggests. “His daughta works ova dere.”

“At the superintendent's office?”

She nods, still poker-faced, like this is not an amazing and lucky coincidence.

“Okay, so—where do I find Deacon?” I seem to recall that he is one of the older employees Leeann mentioned, but I'm not sure I've ever actually seen him.

“He's night security. Gets in at eight.”

Eight is later than I'd like, but it's a lead and I have until roughly four a.m. if I'm to understand the girl in my vision and help her. I thank Paulette and hope that she doesn't spread around the fact that I listen outside doors. There's just one more thing I have to ask her while I know Jules is safely occupied.

“Is Hettie upstairs?” I'm hoping I can sneak in to talk to her, but Paulette's report is not encouraging.

“She sleepin' now. Nurse said she had a rough mornin'. Prob'ly all dem guests dis weekend. Every time she see her daughtas, I swear she take a turn for da worse.” She raises her hand to her mouth, realizing that last part could be construed as a complaint about her employers.

I smile. “I hear Sydney and Brigitte have that effect on people.”

Paulette drops her eyes. “I betta go pass da mop.”

•   •   •

A
FTER DEPOSITING
MY COMPUTER
at a repair shop, I have nothing to do with my day but work. I break out a stack of legal pads, hole up in the cottage, and write the old-fashioned way. For hours, I immerse myself in the story of the Deveau family, trying to draw a picture of their lifestyle, set the scene. Eventually it gets dark and my hand gets a cramp, but I pace the room, brainstorm, work out the book's structure.

At eight o'clock, I go searching for Deacon. I find him walking along the side of the house with a giant high-powered flashlight. He has the kind of wild white hair that tends to connote genius or lunacy, and I'm not sure anyone can successfully evoke Einstein while patrolling the grounds of a century-and-a-half-old Southern plantation at night. He casts his beam in my direction, momentarily blinding me, and looks me over. Evidently I pass inspection, because he quickly lowers his flashlight, the caution on his pink and jowly face giving way to cheer. “Evenin', ma'am! Cold nuff fo' ya?”

In my winter jacket, it's actually not bad. “Deacon, right?” I ask, and he nods. “I'm Charlotte. I heard you might be able to help me. I'm trying to track down Dr. Pinaro, the superintendent of schools. Paulette told me your daughter works at that office.”

He puffs up at the mention of his daughter. “Yeah, Prissy been workin' dere, oh, ten year maybe. She smart one, dat. But she workin' for Mr. Robicheaux now.” He scratches the corner of his eye with a dirty fingernail. “Dr. Pinaro had to leave on account of 'er li'l girl.”

His accent is so thick I have to concentrate to keep up. “Do you happen to know where Dr. Pinaro lives? Or maybe have her phone number?”

“Ah bet Prissy do. Ah can call 'er, if ya lak.” He pulls out a cell phone and punches at some glowing buttons with a knotty finger, but I'm out of luck. The line just keeps on ringing. “She prob'ly puttin' da chilren to bed,” Deacon tells me. “It some kinda 'mergency?”

“It's about Dr. Pinaro's daughter.”

“Ah, Didi. Dat po' li'l ting.”

At the sound of the girl's name, I get goose bumps. “Yeah, Didi. Little redhead, right?”

He nods vigorously. “Dem folks been tru hell and back gettin' 'er treatment. Evertime dey tink she got a prayer, dat cancer come on back.”

This has to be the right girl. I rack my brain for some other tactic. “You don't know the name of Dr. Pinaro's husband, do you? Maybe his number is listed.”

“You could try 'im at work,” Deacon suggests. “He wit da sheriff's department, Ah tink.”

As soon as he says the word “sheriff,” I understand. Why this girl came to me. Why she asked me to tell her father, not her mom. Why Detective Minot looked so thin, so haggard.
You didn't choose me at random, did you, Didi?
I remember Minot's computer, the photograph of the healthy little red-haired girl bouncing about the screen, and I realize with a pang how long ago that photo must have been taken.

“Remy Minot,” I murmur, “that's Dr. Pinaro's husband?”

“Minot, dat's right.” He thinks it over. “Yep, Remy.”

“Then I've already got his number. Thanks, Deacon!” I sprint back to the cottage, wondering how I will tackle my next challenge: relaying Didi's message without sounding certifiable.

•   •   •

I
SIT
CROSS
-
LEGGED
on the bed, Detective Minot's business card in front of me. I'm not afraid of being wrong. I'm afraid of being right. Afraid of knowing this is real, that I can never be normal again.

When he answers, I say it like I've rehearsed it in my head. “This is Charlotte Cates. We met yesterday morning.”

He takes a second to place me. “Oh, Miss Cates. Everything okay?” I can't tell if he's at work or at home.

“I have something I need to tell you. Not about the Deveau case. Something personal.”

“Personal?” He sounds guarded, like I'm about to ask him on a date.

I spit it out as fast as I can. “I know this sounds crazy, but I think I have a message for you. From your daughter.” I grab a fistful of blanket and hold my breath.

There's a silence and then he says flatly, “My daughter's been unconscious for two days. She's not giving anyone any messages.”

I can sense he's about to hang up. “Wait.” I hold the image of Didi in my mind, her bald head and bony shoulder. “Detective Minot, I need to tell you this. If not for you, then for me. Because I know what it's like to lose a child.”

“If this is some speech about accepting Christ as my savior, you can save it. I don't care if Justine put you up to it. The whole bunch of you can take your—”

“No, no,” I interrupt, “it's not a God thing. I'm the last person who'd preach at you.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I know it's nuts, but I had a dream. About Didi.” I rush to get it out before he can end the call. “She told me a time, four sixteen a.m. Tomorrow. She thought—well, that you and your wife would want to be there.” I can't bring myself to say
when she dies
. “Look, I know it's just a dream, maybe it means nothing. But my son died. And I wasn't there for him when it happened.” I can barely hold it together after that. “He died in a hospital, in a room full of strangers, without his mom. I would give anything to have been there. So even if it's a long shot . . .”

“I don't know how you heard about my daughter, but I'll tell you right now I've got no interest in ‘heavenly visions.' Not yours or anyone else's.”

“I understand.” I try to swallow my disappointment, but really, what's the point of seeing things if I can't change them? “I apologize for bothering you. Sometimes my dreams are . . . pretty accurate. I just wouldn't have felt right, not saying anything.”

“Well, you said it.” He sounds more tired than mad now. “And, Miss Cates?” His tone softens somewhat. “I'm sorry about your son.”

Too choked up to manage a simple thank-you, I hang up. Wrap my arms around a pillow. Bury my face in it.