Gathering Deep (18 page)

Twenty

The afternoon had grown thick and sultry by the time a silent ambulance made its way out of the gate. The news vans weren't giving up, though. Not with the yellow police tape still up, blocking the entrance to the property, and Officer Eyebrows still standing guard. Eventually, I slid into the backseat, where the sun wasn't hitting. The old, cracked vinyl was stiff and sticky against my skin, but I was too nervous, wiped out, and just plain scared to care.

I closed my eyes and tried to think of something besides the heat beating down on me or the fear that was twisting my insides into knots, but the only thing I could seem to think about was the coolness of that pine grove from my dreams. The empty darkness of the night, the silence of the stars, and the girl with cheekbones that could cut and a mouth that reminded me of my mother's.

And then, the heat of the day was gone. The constant chatter of the reporters in their vans dwindled until it was nothing but a far-off murmur, and then silence. All at once, I was no longer just imagining the grove of trees—I was there.

So was the girl.

She was a little older than the last time I'd seen her, closer now to my own age. She sat alone, her back against the base of a thick tree, her arms wrapped around her knees, like she was protecting herself from the night. Her mouth was moving, but I couldn't hear what she was saying. Maybe she was talking to herself, but from the way she rocked, maybe she was singing.

After a while, the girl looked up, found the moon high in the sky, and frowned. Her eyes tracked the darkness, searching. She looked right through me, like she didn't see me. She must not have seen what she'd been looking for either, because a moment later, she stood, brushing the pine needles from her skirts as she gathered her things, and started walking. She never looked back.

I didn't hesitate to follow her.

On and on we walked, the girl a little ways ahead of me, picking her way between the trees confidently, even though the night was dark and thick, like she knew exactly where she was going. She didn't stumble once, which is more than I could say for myself.

This time wasn't like before, when I had run and run and never got past the same bit of wooded land. This time, the trees eventually grew farther apart, and with each step we took, the pines gave way and moonlight began to find its way to us, lighting up the land so I didn't have to stumble through the darkness as much.

Eventually, we found the end of the grove of pines and stepped out into a clearing lit up by a heavy moon and a canopy of stars so thick I'd never seen the like. There, I could make out the features of the land—the broad expanse of a field thick with cane. The shadow of some low building off in the distance with lights flickering in its open windows. I looked back once, but the grove of pines I'd just escaped looked so much like a dark, empty mouth that I didn't look back again.

The girl walked on, rubbing her arms like she was trying to warm them with her hands now and then, but mostly she walked with the determined gait of someone who had somewhere to be. In the distance ahead, strange shadowy shapes rose from the land, but we were too far away to make out what they were. As we got closer to them, I understood at once what I was seeing—two straight lines of sturdy-looking trees formed an alley of sorts, leading out into darkness. On the other side, I knew, would be the river. On this side, where we were walking, should have been Le Ciel.

But there was no house.

My steps slowed so much as we neared the property that I almost lost track of the girl. She continued walking, on and on, but I came to a stop. Those giant live oaks that dripped with Spanish moss and made tourists trek from the Quarter just for a picture in their shade looked exactly the same. There was no mistaking where we were—there's nowhere else in all of the delta region with trees planted in just that way—purposefully, like someone wanted them to lead up to the river. But the mansion wasn't there yet. So
when
were we?

The girl was far ahead now, and if I hesitated any longer I was going to lose her. I wanted to know where she was going, so I left the comforting—and unsettling—familiarity of the oaks behind and ran to catch up.

On she walked, past the place where the big house would someday stand. Past a row of small shacks dotting the dark horizon—probably slave quarters for the plantation that would someday become Le Ciel Doux. The original slave quarters hadn't made it through the years when it was unfashionable to have any reminders of the less-than-pristine parts of the area's history sitting around. But they were here now, in whatever time this was.

The girl didn't turn toward them, though, and she didn't stop walking. She went past the area that would one day hold a small, picturesque pond, through another line of trees, and to the clearing that held Thisbe's cabin.

Her steps slowed as she approached it, and when I looked beyond her to the shaded porch of the ghostly white structure, I realized it was because someone was waiting for her—a shadowy figure who held a narrow cigar between his teeth. Its tip flickered a deeper orange as he took a long drag on it.

I couldn't feel anything—not the cool of the air or the breeze rustling the trees—but I could feel the frustration and anger radiating off the girl when she saw the man on her porch. She squared her shoulders and took the last few steps toward the cabin, toward
her
cabin. The man sitting on the porch didn't so much as stand to acknowledge her arrival, but as we got closer, I realized he was younger than I'd expected. But there was something familiar about him.

It took me a second to place him, but when his mouth turned down at something the girl said, it clicked into place.
Roman
.

Once I recognized him, there was no way not to see the Roman Dutilette I was familiar with in the man's features. But he was younger here than he was in that daguerreotype Dr. Aimes had showed us. Younger than in any of the portraits that hung on the walls in the big house. His hooded eyes seemed to look right through the girl, like he didn't believe she was worth seeing, and his smile was more a sneer than anything else.

The girl was clearly agitated. I couldn't hear a thing she was saying, but from the way she held her body, she was strung tight. Angry.

Roman listened with disinterest to whatever it was the girl told him, blowing streams of smoke from his thin mouth. When she was finished, her hand pointing toward the land we'd walked through as though to direct him on his way, he threw his head back and laughed. Then he got up from the porch and stepped up to her, his eyes cold, his skin dusky in the moonlight. He was still sneering, his light eyes glinting with expectation as he reached for her, brushed her cheek with his hand.

She jerked her head away, a look of disgust and hate filling her eyes, but he took her by the arm with one hand and, flicking his still-lit cigar aside, roughly grabbed her chin with the other, forcing her to look at him. She struggled but couldn't free herself.

I moved closer, wanting to help her get away from him.

But my hand passed clean through them both, like I was nothing more than a ghost. There was nothing I could do. Not as he pulled her against him. Not as he forced his cruel mouth against hers.

He kissed her long and hard and without any affection at all, his hands groping her roughly as she struggled against him, and when we was done, he sneered at her again.

Then he looked up at me, a mocking smile wiped across his mouth, and said my name.

Twenty-One

“Chloe?”

Someone was shaking me, and my only thought was panic. I had to run, to get away from Roman's cold eyes and cruel hands, so I lashed out wildly.

“Chloe!” The voice pitched higher. That's when I realized I knew the voice—it wasn't Roman who was saying my name.

“Lucy?” Pulling myself slowly off the sticky vinyl of the seat, I sat up, my head still muddled from the last bits of the dream. Lucy was standing over me, her skinny body silhouetted against the softening sun. It was late—almost evening.

She backed up to allow me to scoot out of the car, and I took my time stretching out my sore neck and back and focusing on breathing, on letting the rest of the dream wisp away in the warmth of the day. That's when I remembered why I'd been waiting in the car.

There was one news van still hanging around on the road, but the rest had left, apparently. The cop with the too-big gut and mirrored glasses was gone as well.

“I'm sorry it took so long,” she said.

My mouth felt like I'd been chewing on a cotton ball. “Did you find out what happened?”

Lucy didn't look so good. Her freckles stood out more than usual against her pale skin. “They're not sure what happened … ”

“Some reporter said there was a body.”

She closed her eyes, like she was willing herself to be somewhere else, to see something else. “It was Byron.”

My mouth fell open. “Someone killed Byron?”

“It's bad, Chloe. They found him at the foot of the stairs in the main hall of the mansion. His neck was broken, and they think he was pushed down them.”

“How do they know he didn't just trip?”

Lucy grimaced. “Remember the daguerreotype of Roman and Josephine they found the other day?”

I nodded.

“Those are actually printed on glass. Someone smashed it and used one of the bigger shards to stab Byron. Before he fell. There was blood all the way down the steps.”

But Lucy was so pale and her expression so distant that I knew there was more.

“What else?” I asked.

“They arrested him,” she whispered. Her eyes were glassy with tears when she looked up at me. “Someone told the police that my dad and Byron had been fighting over Piers taking the charm to Nashville. I guess it was pretty bad, and since my dad was the one to find Byron … ” She took a deep breath. “The police took him downtown in handcuffs a few minutes ago. My mom's frantic. She's on the phone with my uncle, who's a lawyer in Chicago, and they're trying to figure stuff out, but … ” Her voice broke.

“Oh my god, Lucy.” I wrapped her in a hug. She kind of slumped in my arms.

“He didn't do it,” she said. “He
couldn't
have done it.”

“I know he didn't,” I told her, looking over her shoulder to the mansion in the distance. “They'll figure this out and he'll be back here in no time.”

She pulled away from me. “It has to be Thisbe,” she said. “It has to be related.”

I didn't disagree, but I'd seen how Dr. Aimes had lashed out at Byron before and I wasn't so sure
how
it was related.

“He didn't do it,” she said again, her voice hollow and breaking. But it sounded like she was doing all she could to convince herself.

That night, Mrs. Aimes left T.J. with us so she could go downtown and try to figure out was happening with Dr. Aimes. I don't think anyone slept much waiting for them to get back. When I did manage to drift off, I'd dream of the shadowy figure on the porch who had been waiting for the girl. Usually, it was Roman's face I saw there, but other times it was Byron's. And once, it was Dr. Aimes who looked back at me with cruel eyes.

Twenty-Two

By the time we woke, Dr. Aimes was back at home, looking shaken and unsettled. Not that I could blame him. Finding a body and then being accused of the murder would make anyone look like that. Still, there was something in the way he held himself all closed off and quiet that made me uneasy.

Before breakfast was even over, though, a knock at the door shook everyone up again.

Dr. Aimes answered it, and his voice carried into the kitchen where we were sitting: “I already answered all of the questions I'm going to. You can talk to my lawyer … ”

Lucy glanced at me and we both got up to go see what was happening. When we came into the front parlor, Dr. Aimes was still standing at the door, as though barring it from the two police that were standing on the porch.

“We're not here for that, sir,” a plain-clothes detective said. “We found some things in an abandoned vehicle that we believe belong to you.” The male officer held up a clear bag. “May we come in?”

“I don't understand,” Dr. Aimes said, taking the bag.

“The vehicle was found outside of Picayune,” the female officer told him.

Dr. Aimes took the items out of the bag—a torn envelope clearly labeled with the university's logo, and a cube of
sea-green-colored foam that was also ripped in half—and examined them. “These are … ” His voice trailed off.

“You recognize them?” the detective asked, his face not giving away any emotion at all.

“I think I do, yes. Please. Come in.” Dr. Aimes stepped back to let the two in as he turned the foam over in his hand. He was silent as he traced the indentation inside. “I sent an artifact to be delivered by an intern of mine. I think this is the packaging,” he said, his eyes never leaving the empty foam cube. “And there was a book as well,” he added, gesturing absently to the torn envelope.

“We didn't find anything in the envelope, sir,” the female officer said. “Can you tell us the name of this intern?”

“Piers. Piers Dumont,” Dr. Aimes answered, his voice hollow as he handed back the packaging.

“When was the last time you heard from him?” The officer asked pulled out a pad of paper and a pen.

“I sent him to Nashville on Thursday,” he told them. “He's a student at Vanderbilt and was delivering some things to a colleague of mine there. He was supposed to help with a few tests and come back next week with the results.”

“Why was his car in Picayune?” I interrupted, dread making my stomach feel like lead.

“Who's this?” the detective asked, looking between Dr. Aimes and me and obviously not seeing the connection.

“This is Chloe Sabourin. She's been staying with us. She's Piers Dumont's girlfriend.”

“Why would his car be in Picayune?” I asked again, panic clawing at me.

“I'm sorry. We can only divulge information to family.”

“His parents are out of the country for the summer. He doesn't have any family in town right now,” I told them, dazed.

The officers just frowned.

“Where is he?” I asked. Vaguely, I felt Mrs. Aimes's arm go around my shoulder, and the freely offered comfort had the words dying in my throat. I looked at Lucy, and her eyes were filled with the same worry I felt choking me.

“We're still trying to piece things together,” the detective told me.

“So you haven't heard from Mr. Dumont since Thursday?” the female officer asked. She exchanged another silent glance with the detective.

“I spoke to him after that,” I said. “On Friday.”

“Did he confirm that he'd made it to Nashville?”

“I … ”
Had he?
I couldn't remember. The conversation had been so short, so gruff, that he didn't tell me much of anything. “I think so.”

The officer looked at Dr. Aimes, dismissing my information and me. “What was the value of the artifacts?”

My stomach sank at the implication in her words. “Piers would never have stolen those,” I argued.

“Chloe … ” Dr. Aimes warned, his voice serious. Then he turned back to the officers. “I'm not exactly sure. With items of historical significance, often it can be hard to put an exact dollar amount on them.” His voice grew darker. “But they were valuable to the historical record. To this property.”

“We can help you fill out a report,” the detective offered.

“What about Piers?”

The detective looked up at me and then pulled a card from his pocket. “If you hear from him, you should contact me immediately.”

“You're not going to look for him? He wouldn't have done what you're suggesting. He could be in trouble somewhere—hurt.”

The female officer frowned. “There wasn't any sign of trouble other than the packaging we found. There's nothing to indicate that Mr. Dumont was in any distress. You're welcome to come downtown and file a missing persons report if you'd like, though.”

Anger lashed through me and I felt a breeze brush against my skin, but I forced myself to tamp my anger down and not lash out. “Thank you. I will,” I said.

The house on Desire Street looked the same as it did a couple of days before, so I didn't understand why I was so nervous. But the longer I hesitated out on the sidewalk, the more I started to think that the whole plan was a really bad idea. I'd left Lucy behind at Le Ciel to look into the registers, but she thought I was filing a police report, not doing this.

I turned on my heels. “Stupid,” I said to myself, starting back toward my parking spot a few blocks over.

“What's stupid?” called a voice from behind me.

I cursed under my breath and turned back to the house to find Odane standing at the top of his porch steps, grinning like someone who knew exactly what effect his smile had on people.

“What brings you to my side of town?” He didn't bother to come down the steps, just kept his place at the top of his porch, the king of his would-be castle.

“I … ”
Shit
. I didn't have any good excuse for being there except the real reason—the one I'd just decided not to go through with.

His brows drew together and that always-present smile of his disappeared. The look that replaced it was a new one—a sincere one—and damn if that wasn't a thousand times more dangerous.

“What is it?” he asked as he jogged down the three steps and came out to where I was standing. “Did something happen to Aunt Odette?”

“No, Mama Legba—your aunt—she's fine.”

He was right up close to me now, so close I could detect the warm, woodsy scent of him. It reminded me of the way a forest smells at night—dark and wild with the bite of pine cutting through—and the memory sent little shivers of awareness through me.

I locked those down. Hard. I didn't need any shivers of anything, especially not coming from him.

“Then what is it?” he asked, still all sincere concern.

“Nothing. I changed my mind.”

He cocked one eyebrow and crossed his arms over his broad chest. “And you think I'm gonna let you get away without telling me what you changed your mind about?”

I shook my head and turned to keep walking.

“Hey,” he said, his words as gentle as the hand that grabbed my arm to stop me. He turned me to him gently, but his hands were steady on my arms to keep me in place. “Really. Tell me what's up. You didn't come this far out of your way for nothing.”

I pulled away, but I didn't go any farther. I'd come this far, hadn't I? He was being so nice, so concerned, that I almost did want to tell him.

“Admit it,” he said after a few seconds of undecided silence from me. “You couldn't stop thinking about me. You want me.”

My head whipped up before I could stop myself. “You—” But the words died in my throat when I saw the laughter in his eyes. “You're kidding.” Which was about the dumbest, most obvious thing I could've picked to say.

“Maybe.” His mouth turned up at the corners. “Maybe not.” He gave me a wink, and when I rolled my eyes at him, his expression went serious again, changing the whole layout of his face. With his eyes focused on me, his mouth in a grim line, and his whole attention turned toward sincerity, he almost looked like a different person. “I already volunteered to help you. Why don't you come on in and tell me what's what?”

I glanced back up at the house—the steady droning rattle of the window air conditioner, the crooked shutter, the warmth the whole place seemed to be surrounded by.

I didn't belong there.

“Come on,” he said. Not giving me time to refuse, he took me by the hand and led the way up the steps.