The Gates of Evangeline (34 page)

I don't notice the cars pulling up, an airboat launching, a pair of EMTs rushing to my side. I only know they're pulling me away from him. I start yelling. Nonsensically yelling, swatting at people, somehow convinced their expertise is not enough, that only I can bring this boy back to life.

“You did all you could do,” Detective Minot tells me, and I wonder where he came from, why he seems to be restraining me. Or maybe that's a blanket he's trying to wrap around me. I guess I'm still wet. And very cold. “It's out of your hands now, Charlotte. It's out of your hands.”

One of the EMTs covers Jonah's nose and mouth with a plastic device, squeezing air through a bulb, while the other, a woman, performs chest compressions. They're more efficient than I was, fifteen chest compressions for every two breaths, but they're no more successful. Detective Minot tries to steer me away from the dock, but I won't budge. If Jonah's gone, I have to know.

“We're going to find Mike Findley,” Detective Minot says, as if that could make things better. “I promise you, we'll find him. He's not getting away with this one. He will spend the rest of his miserable life—”

He stops. Stares. So do I. Because Jonah has begun to vomit.

The medic kneeling by the boy's chest reaches for his carotid. “We've got a pulse!”

Minutes later, in a miracle that seems far greater than walking on water or multiplying fish and bread, Jonah Landry opens his eyes. He doesn't sit up, just takes in the scene around him with a foggy, confused look. Swamp drool dribbles from his lower lip onto his chin. He blinks a few times, and then his dark, solemn gaze meets mine.

“You came,” he says.

I take a few steps toward him. “Jonah? Honey? Do you know who I am?”

“Yeah,” he says. “You're my angel.”

H
ow to explain this?

I'm at the sheriff's department, working on my official statement. After everything that's happened, I just want to catch my breath, let it sink in that I've found Jo-Jo, that he's alive. The sheriff's department has its own ideas, however, and here I am, almost eight o'clock now, sitting in a cold, white room with paper, a pen, and a can of Sprite. I'm supposed to write down everything I witnessed this evening, recall the events while they're still fresh in my mind.

It's not the statement I'm struggling with, but the questions that will inevitably follow. Why did I suspect Mike? How did I know where to go?
It came to me in a dream
seems an inadequate explanation, although people in these parts might be better prepared to accept that than I am. They believe in angels. They believe in the helping hand of God.

As I piece together a terse account of spotting Mike in the boat, I can't stop thinking of Jonah and Leeann. I thought
I
had trust issues. How will either one of them ever trust men again? Can Leeann's faith remain strong when she learns the truth about this man she thought she loved?

The door opens. For a second, I worry that it's an officer coming to admonish me for spacing out, but no. It's Detective Minot.

“They got him,” he says. “Just got the call from Water Patrol.”

“Oh, thank God.” That's one good piece of news for Leeann. At least she won't have to wonder where Mike is at night. “He'll be convicted, right?”

He nods. “Jonah's physical exam was fairly conclusive. And we've got your account. Findley should get life in prison.” In a grim way, Detective Minot sounds pleased.

“Poor Leeann,” I murmur. “This will destroy her.”

“The mother?” Detective Minot's mouth twists in scorn. “Please. She left her son alone with that bastard over and over. It was her job to protect her kid from perverts and she invited one into her home.”

Maybe, if I didn't know Leeann, I would agree with him. But I
do
know her. “She's twenty-three years old,” I say quietly. “She thought she'd found her Prince Charming. Don't put this on her.”

“Look, we'll do everything we can to help her and her son. There are support groups. Therapy. It'll be a long, ugly road, but she'll make it. So will the kid.”

I lay my arms on the table and stare down at them. “I'm going to have to testify, aren't I?”

“Maybe. But this stuff can take years. He could take a deal, plead guilty. It might never even go to trial.” He peers at me, his haggard face softening. “You've been through a lot today. How you feeling?”

“Stupid.”

He raises an eyebrow. “How's that?”

“I was wrong.” I stare down at my half-completed written statement. “Everything I told you about Gabriel was wrong. I'm so sorry, Remy.”

“What are you talking about?” He sits down across from me. “You saved that boy's life.”

“If I wasn't so stupid, I wouldn't have had to. I had the information I needed staring me in the face from day one, and I didn't put it together. Who knows how many times Mike got his hands on Jonah that I could've prevented.” My stomach turns at the thought.

“Jonah's alive because of you.” Detective Minot leans across the table and studies me with intense blue eyes. “You can't excuse his mom and then tell me you blame yourself.”

“You don't have to be nice. We both know that I've been wasting your time.”

“You kidding me? Nobody would've known what happened to Sean Lauchlin if you hadn't taken me to the sugar mill.”

“You still don't know what happened to Sean Lauchlin,” I point out. “They'll probably never solve that case.”

“Fine.” Detective Minot stands up. “If you want to sit around feeling guilty, go ahead. But I want you to know, this is why I joined the force. To help people. To get the bad guy. Knowing you and going through all this—it hasn't been a waste of time for me,” he says. “It's been an honor.”

He's gone before I can thank him, hug him, tell him the privilege was mine. Before I can tell him what an amazing and good man he is. There's a lump in my throat when I think about leaving Chicory and never seeing Remy or Leeann again, but I take a sip of Sprite and press forward. I'll find a way to express my gratitude to him later. Right now, I have to finish writing this damn statement.

•   •   •

J
USTINE CALLS
as I'm packing early the next morning. She's heard that I'm leaving today and wants to take me for a farewell breakfast. We meet at Crawdaddy's, exchange quick hugs, and sit in a booth by the window. After ordering us a stack of pancakes and receiving the requisite coffee, Justine raises her mug in a toast.

“To Charlotte. For keeping the little boys of Chicory safe.”

“Thank your husband,” I tell her. “Thank Water Patrol. I'm not the one who caught Mike.”

“I'm thanking
you
,” she insists. “You knew where to go and when. Remy said you did CPR on that child, kept him going 'til the paramedics got there.” She reaches across the Formica table and puts a hand on mine. “God did right when He picked you, honey.”

I look around the diner at all the patrons. A whiskery man in a sweatshirt and hat. A woman reading the newspaper. A bearded father trying to ignore his squabbling twin daughters, who seem to be disputing ownership of a My Little Pony. Am I any different from these people? I want to tell Justine she's wrong, that I'm not an instrument of God, just some woman plagued with bad dreams. The truth is, though, I'm no longer certain. Is there some omniscient Creator orchestrating everything? Probably not. But Jonah Landry still recognized me out there on the dock. He'd seen me before. His angel.

Our gangly waiter arrives and presents us with an obscene pile of pancakes. “On the house,” he says. “The owner's not in today, ma'am, but if he were, I know he'd be givin' you a whole lot more than pancakes. That was his grandbaby you helped yesterday.”

Justine smiles as he leaves our table. “Guess I'm not the only one who thinks you've done good.”

The kindness in Justine's voice makes me unexpectedly sad. “Thanks,” I say.

“For what?” She saws off a hunk of pancake and takes a bite.

“For making me feel like I'm special and not a freak. You take my crazy dreams in stride.”

“A freak? No.” She shakes her head. “Prophetic dreams are nothing new. Look at the Old Testament. You know the story of Joseph and what he did for Egypt, don't you?”

“Sort of.” I don't have the heart to tell her that my knowledge is limited to what I can recall from a
Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat
revival.

She gives me a quick recap. “The Pharaoh, his baker, and his cupbearer all had prophetic dreams. They just needed Joseph to help interpret them.”

“I wish I'd had a Joseph to walk me through mine,” I tell her. “My interpretive powers haven't been the best.” Her mention of the Bible reminds me of something I've been meaning to ask about: the story that was bookmarked in the Deveau Bible. “Justine, you must know the whole Judgment of Solomon story.”

She nods. “The two mothers fighting over a baby. Solomon offers to cut the baby in half.”

I wince. “That's the one. What does that story mean to you? Is there some—I don't know—special biblical message?”

She stops eating and dabs her mouth with a napkin. “It's funny you're asking. I thought about that story a lot when Didi was sick.”

“Why?”

Justine exhales deeply, and I know things are about to get heavy. “Once the cancer spread and we knew she couldn't beat it, we had to decide. Continue with treatment and try to extend her life a little, or stop. Let her go.” She swallows. “I kept thinking about that story, how the child's true mother was willing to give up her baby to protect him.” She folds her hands on the edge of the table. “I knew I couldn't protect Didi from dying. But I could protect her from pain. If I gave her up to God, I could save her some pain. It seemed like . . . that's what a true mother would do.” She wipes her eyes, embarrassed. “Sorry.”

“Don't be. That makes a lot of sense.”

She shrugs. “I guess I'm always going to wonder if it was the right call. Who knows, maybe if she'd gone through more treatments . . . I mean, miracles happen.”

I know this line of thinking, this road to self-blame. “No,” I tell her firmly. “Didi told me the exact minute she'd pass away. That was her time, Justine, and she knew it.” I remember that bald head, Didi's bone-thin body, her look of exhaustion, and I believe absolutely in Remy and Justine's decision. “It's what she wanted,” I say.

She picks up her fork and nudges a limp piece of pancake. “She was eleven years old. I shouldn't have had to make a choice like that.”

And she's right. It's not fair that an eleven-year-old girl should spend years of her short life in and out of hospitals, wondering if she'll make it to her next birthday. Not fair that her parents, good people and respected public servants, should lose their only child when others much less worthy never do. Not fair that Justine's lifetime of church involvement and prayer should yield the same result as my lifetime of sinful skepticism.

Justine Pinaro may be a woman of God, but I realize from the torment on her face that even
she
wrestles with doubt. Her faith does not insulate her from anger or from grief any more than it has shielded her from death. I can hate myself enough to believe I deserve my misery, but Justine? She does not deserve this, and the utter lack of justice or reason at work depresses me deeply. I stare out the window, watching the traffic thicken as we hit the worst of rush hour, watching the mad scramble to get to work, earn a living, press forward no matter who or what we've lost.

Whatever Jonah may think, I know I'm a poor excuse for an angel.

•   •   •

B
ACK AT
E
VANGELINE
, I find myself dragging. My bags are packed, the car is loaded, and I've sent Sydney and Brigitte—still in New Orleans—a polite e-mail thanking them for their hospitality. I don't know why I'm lingering in my guest cottage, drifting from the sink to the bed to the table and back again.
The drive back will help clear your head,
I promise myself. And I'll get to see Grandma soon—even if I won't be bringing Noah home to meet her.

I try to put Noah from my mind but can't. He's another one of Evangeline's ghosts to me now, as vital and as absent as Gabriel or Neville or the Lauchlins. Why did I let myself get in so deep? Just one more mystery I'll never solve.

I take one last look around the cottage, do a quick sweep for forgotten objects. The only personal items remaining are the boxes of Deveau junk, and though I'm tempted to take something, I want a clean break from Evangeline. Still, I can't resist fishing the old Bible from the drawer one last time. Thinking of my conversation with Justine, I flip to the Judgment of Solomon. Before, I read the story as a lesson on justice and wisdom. Upon another read, though, I can see where Justine was coming from. Solomon's wisdom lies in understanding a mother's innate drive to sacrifice herself for the safety and well-being of her child. If this Bible was owned by Hettie or Maddie Lauchlin—both mothers—perhaps that resonated.

I think about what Justine said.
The child's true mother
was willing to give up her baby to protect him.
If Maddie attempted to protect her son from harm, she was wildly unsuccessful—Sean spent nearly three decades buried in an unmarked grave. And there's no evidence Maddie ever made a conscious decision to give Sean up to ensure his safety, not unless she killed him in some bizarre religious attempt to save his soul from the perils of homosexuality. A weak theory, at best. Which brings me back to Hettie.

Okay. The Judgment of Solomon, and that handwritten page of biblical quotes. Where's the connection? Initially, all the biblical excerpts about sexual immorality, temptation, lust, and sin look pretty forbidding, but at the end is a cause for hope:
Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
And there's another hopeful concluding thought.
Above all, keep loving one another earnestly, since love covers a multitude of sins.

Did Hettie love the sinner but hate the sin? Maybe she was willing to give up Andre to protect him. From Neville's crushing disapproval. From the life of faking it that she'd resigned herself to. Maybe she gave Andre her blessing to go with Sean.

Then what went wrong? How did Sean end up dead? And why the years of monthly payments to him? I'm on the wrong path, missing something. Something about Gabriel. Hettie had two sons, after all, and Gabriel was the one she lost.

The child's true mother was willing to give up her baby to protect him.

Which baby was she protecting, and from what?

A wild hunch begins to form, not in my brain but in my chest. I unearth the book of sonnets from its box and remove Sean's letter. As I skim through the contents, my suspicions take shape, grow in weight.
You can't live under Neville's thumb forever,
Sean says, and later acknowledges that
being a Deveau means you're afraid of the tabloids
. He refuses to accept others' disapproval as a reason to be apart.
I don't care what people think when they see us,
he states.
If we don't fit with their ideas of love, that's their problem, not ours.

Now I understand, and it changes everything.

I have assumed that the letter found in Andre's book was meant for Andre, and I'll wager he was the one to
find
it, the one who pressed it between pages of Shakespeare. But the letter was not
for
him. It was for the other Deveau who lived in fear of Neville.