Stray Fears Page 7

  When Richard disconnected, I said, “He’s a fireman.”

  “Have you seen my briefcase?”

  “I put it in your study. He’s very strong. Just a few years older than me. He lets me wear his helmet.”

  “Elien, we’ve talked about this. I’m perfectly happy for you to have other consensual relationships; in fact, at your age, I expect it.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means this is why I insisted we agree on an open relationship.”

  I carried my half-drunk juice to the sink. “Richard?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  I hesitated, and then I dumped out the juice. “Never mind.”

  When he came back down with his briefcase, he kissed me. Pulling back, he added, “Elien, sweetheart, I think you should talk to Zahra about this.”

  “About what?” I asked as I loaded the few dishes from breakfast.

  “This defensiveness after intimacy.”

  “Oh, I thought you meant my nymphomania.”

  My back was to him, and he didn’t quite sigh, but I could feel his weariness. “Have a nice day.”

  “Or maybe my anorexia.”

  His steps clicked toward the front door.

  “I’m wasting away, Richard.”

  I waited until I couldn’t hear the Lexus anymore, and then I went out to the porch. It was a bright October day, cooler than usual, and the sun outlined the bald cedars and the tupelo trees on the far side of the Okhlili. Something moved along the bank, disturbing the brush; the morning painted the vegetation gold. A swamp rabbit, maybe. Or a cottonmouth. Farther north, where the river fanned out to form Bayou Pere Rigaud, alligators swam under curtains of Spanish moss. Tourists often sighted black bears along the Tangipahoa. I wondered if any of those wild beasts were as vicious as me.

  Muriel arrived in her Subaru. When I hopped into the passenger seat, she was applying eyeliner.

  “Want me to do that?” I asked.

  “Good gravy, you’d probably do better than I am.” She touched up a corner and then checked herself in the mirror. Muriel was probably in her fifties, wanted to look like she was in her forties, and acted like she was in her sixties. I guessed she’d always been mothering and clucking, probably ever since she was old enough to walk. In a cartoon, she’d have worn a long white apron that she fanned herself with. “Child, you are skin and bones.”

  “Richard’s been talking behind my back.”

  She pinched my wrist. “I’m getting you a beignet and a coffee.”

  “Hey, ow.”

  “I could fit your heinie in a pencil box.”

  “That sounds awful.”

  “And you’re grumpy today, too.” She turned her full attention on me, one hand reaching out. “Why are you grumpy when you’re just so cute?”

  “If you pinch my cheek, I’m going to bite off those fake nails.”

  “Lord, Elien. You are on a tear, aren’t you?”

  “To the library, Jeeves.”

  “I am a highly educated professional,” she said, pointing a tube of lipstick at me before returning her attention to the mirror.

  “Noted.”

  “I have a B.S.N. from Tulane.”

  “The Harvard of the Bayou.”

  “I have an M.S.N. from Louisiana State.”

  “I’ve heard the stories. Stonewall Jackson was at the commencement, right?”

  “I am a PMHNP-BC. Do you know what that means?”

  “It sounds like a mouthful.”

  “Why are you being so awful?”

  “Because I feel awful.”

  “Well,” she said, stuffing the tube of lipstick away and focusing on me again, “do what any decent person does: bottle it up, smile, and tell your priest.”

  “I will remember that.”

  “And just so we’re clear, young man, I am not your chauffeur.”

  “Yet here we are.” I clapped. “Library, Jeeves.”

  Sighing, she shifted into drive, and we headed toward Bragg.

  Muriel dropped me at the Bragg branch of the DuPage Parish Library; when she asked about picking me up, I told her to keep the car running at the end of the block, at which point she rolled her eyes and drove off.

  The library was from the 70s, built of brick, with skinny, floor-to-ceiling windows breaking the walls at regular intervals. I went inside, passed through the RFID gates, and found myself in one of those spaces that was desperately bleak in spite of everyone’s best efforts. Clearly, the library staff had tried to gussy up the place with banners and posters and colorful displays of books and puzzles and DVDs. But nothing could fix what was really wrong with the space: the low ceilings, the fluorescent lighting, the industrial carpet, the smell of cabbage.

  I hadn’t been in a library since high school. College hadn’t interested me, although Richard still brought it up from time to time, and even in high school, my visits to the library had been strictly functional and as short as possible. Now, staring around me, I remembered why. I saw the retirees, the housewives, the kids. Newspapers on sticks. An ancient man paying a fine with pennies. A bulletin board with a flyer advertising WARHAMMER GAME NIGHT BRING YOUR OWN ARMY SLAY A CHAOS LORD. I wished somebody would slay—slew?—me.

  “Good morning,” a young woman said. She was black, her hair in tight braids, and she was beautiful in a bright yellow dress. “May I help you?”

  “Do I look that out of place?”

  “Just a little lost.”

  Pointing at the sign, I said, “Slay or slew?”

  “Slew is the past tense. Why? Did you slay a chaos lord?”

  “Just ten or so.”

  She smiled. “That’s very impressive.”

  “I try to keep my hand in.”

  “All right,” she said, “If you need anything—”

  “Actually, I’m doing some research on monsters.”

  “Monsters?”

  “Yeah. Can you point me to the books?”

  With a grin, she waved a hand around us.

  “Very funny. The monster books.”

  “Well, you’ll have to tell me a little more. Stories about monsters? There’s this really great gay vampire series. Something like that?”

  “No, not—wait. Maybe. Just, you know, for research.”

  “Of course.”

  “But really I’m looking for, I don’t know. Legends, I guess. Or history. Something like that.”

  “Cultural anthropology, folklore, that kind of thing?”

  I shrugged. “Sorry. When you’re this pretty, you don’t have to learn big words like that.”

  “Oh Lord. All right, I think we can find some stuff. What monster?”

  “Don’t you just have a—I don’t know. Like a Wikipedia on them. But in book form.”

  Her eyebrows went up. “Like, an encyclopedia?”

  “Sure, that’s a thing.”

  “Uh huh. Well. We actually might have a monster encyclopedia. Or something similar. And that’s a good starting place, I guess. Let’s see what we can find.”

  “First, you have to tell me your name.”

  “Kennedy.”

  “All right, Miss Kennedy: to the books.”

  “Uh huh,” Kennedy said to herself as she led me to a computer.

  A few minutes later, after roving the shelves, Kennedy sat me at a table and laid down three books. A Beginner’s Guide to Monsters, Monsters A-Z, and what was clearly an illustrated book for children called Sneaky, Scary, Bump in the Night.

  I tapped the cover.

  “I was worried,” Kennedy said. “These others have some pretty big words.”

  “Miss Kennedy.”

  Shrugging, she opened A Beginner’s Guide to Monsters to the table of contents. “What were you looking for in particular?”

  “It’s like a blue fire that floats around. Maybe it comes out of someone’s mouth. Maybe it’s in their eyes.”

 
“Uh huh,” Kennedy said again, so quietly this time that I barely heard her. “Is this something you saw?”

  “Oh no. I mean, just on TV. I don’t know what it’s called.”

  “What show?”

  “I don’t even remember.”

  “Well—”

  “Oh, maybe it’s like a firefly. Is there a firefly monster?”

  Kennedy paused, and then she flipped pages. “There’s something called a will o’ the wisp. Have you heard of that?”

  I shook my head.

  “It might look like a firefly.” She found the entry in the table of contents and turned to the entry. The illustration was a pretty lame glowing blue ball. “People thought they would lead you astray, maybe even lead you to your death if you followed them. It was probably swamp gas or bioluminescence.”

  I scanned the entry. “It doesn’t say anything about possession. Or bringing people back to life.”

  Kennedy was staring at me now.

  “It was in the TV show,” I added.

  “Well, let’s try the index in this one,” she said, grabbing Monsters A-Z. She ran her finger down the page. “Possession. Ghosts, vampires. Ok, what about reanimation. Blech. It’s just got zombies.”

  “What if I told you it was local?”

  Kennedy closed the book slowly. “The TV show?”

  “Right, the TV show. Would it make a difference if the TV show were set in Louisiana?”

  “Maybe,” Kennedy said. “If it were relying on regional folklore.”

  “Let’s go with that.”

  A few minute later, Kennedy came back with a massive book that looked at least a hundred years old. The leather binding was flaking in places, and the lettering looked like genuine gold leaf. When she set it down, dust floated up from the cover. New Orleans and La Louisiane: Chorography, Ethnology, and the Native Episteme.

  “Uh.”

  “Lots of big words in this one.”

  “Yeah, I can see that.”

  “Better take this one too,” she said, laying Sneaky, Scary, Bump in the Night on top. “Just in case you need reference material.”

  “That seems like a good idea.”

  “Great. Let’s check these out. Do you have your library card?”

  “Uh.”

  “Ok,” she said. “We’ll do that too.”

  “Thanks, Miss Kennedy.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Oh, um, Miss Kennedy?”

  “Yes?”

  “You did say something about a gay vampire book.”

  DAG (4)

  I got to Mills Diner on time for my meeting with Kade, snagged a booth, and considered calling the whole thing off. Asking Kade to look into Mason’s life was one thing; Mason was dead, and it couldn’t hurt him. Asking Kade to investigate Elien was something else entirely. Instead of leaving, though, I put my earbuds in and listened to a nice Whales of the South Pacific track. I ran my hands along the table’s chrome banding. My fingers left smears in the greasy skim on top of the Masonite. Every breath brought in the smell of cheap coffee and a well-seasoned griddle.

  The diner wasn’t exactly busy at this hour, but Mills never really quieted down until ten or eleven. It had the usual diner décor: vinyl banquettes, smudged chrome, a jukebox that only played Elvis. On the walls, framed newspapers provided a brief cultural history of Bragg for the uninitiated and the nostalgic. Up there, you could see the day Mary Balomer won Miss Louisiana 1978, as well as Hank Chuck Lagard’s six-foot gator, football jerseys from the Braxton Bragg Memorial High team that took 2nd place in state, and, of course, an autographed photo of Huey Long, with the Kingfish shaking hands with Bragg’s mayor at the time, Emile Crawford.

  I was trying to think of a clever way to combine the Kingfish and the Crawfish, and it seemed just within reach, when someone slapped a file down on the table.

  “Thought that was you,” Kade muttered.

  Brennan Kade was tall and built, although some of that build was getting a little . . . softer since he’d left the force. Like Mason, Kade had gotten shot on duty; unlike Mason, it had been a career-ending injury, and Kade’s exit from the sheriff’s department hadn’t been easy on him—or on anyone who liked him, which usually included me. He rubbed a hand over his shaved head, fixed me with a hazel gaze, and waited.

  Pulling out my earbuds, I twined the cord around one finger. From the seat next to me, I lifted a second folder and slid it across the table. Deals with Kade weren’t about money, at least, not for me; he did PI work, and that meant sometimes he needed access to Sheriff’s Department records, so normally, we worked out some kind of trade.

  “Please tell me you’re going to eat,” I said. “I’m starving.” I massaged my forehead. “Christ, is that fucked up? I’ve still got to eat, right?”

  “I could eat,” Kade said. “A burger sounds good right about now.”

  Flipping open the folder, I scanned the pages for a moment; some of the pictures slid out, Mason and Mary Ann and Mason’s house, and I glanced at them before stuffing them back in. I slapped the folder shut again, dropped it on the table, and put my head in my hands. “Do they serve beer here? Tell me they have beer.”

  That hazel gaze didn’t waver; all Kade said was, “It’s a diner. What do you think?”

  “This is bad.” I tapped the folder. “This is really bad, isn’t it? I can see it. You’ve got no poker face. Strip poker? Please, you’d be naked in five seconds.” I sat back, crossed my arms, and said, “Just tell me if it’s really bad. That’s all I’m asking. I need it to be bad, but fuck me, I just need you to tell me before I read it.”

  Resting his arms on the table, Kade said, “For starters, it’s a good thing we aren’t playing strip poker because you don’t want to see this naked. But also, it’s not good. Mason Comeaux’s falling apart. The photographs in that folder will tell you everything you need to know. While his house is in shambles, his homelife isn’t any better. Mary Ann moved out a few weeks ago, and he seems to have given up. It looks like he doesn’t even know how to start a lawn mower anymore, for fuck’s sake.”

  For a moment, I just sat there, biting my lip. Then I shrugged and said, “Guess he doesn’t have to worry about that anymore.” I unfolded one of the thin napkins, pinning it to the table between my hands, the paper stretched so tight that it split along one edge. “Mason’s . . . he’s dead. And fuck, you are going to hear all of it one way or another. He went crazy or something. I had to . . . Jesus, I had to stop him, and then it just happened. He was going to kill this kid.” I stopped, staring at the white square between my hands, and then I balled it up and batted it toward the floor. “Paid leave until they figure this out, but there’s no possible way of figuring it out, so I guess I’m saying, that,” I nodded at the folder I’d brought for Kade, “is the last thing I’m going to be able to get you for a while.”

  Kade tapped the folder again. “Then who emptied his bank account?”

  “Huh?”

  Tap. Tap. Tap. “It’s all in the folder. I included the bank transaction. His account was emptied less than a week ago.”

  “Jesus.” I stared at the folder and said again, “Jesus.” Then, wiping my face, I said, “Yeah, ok. Thank you. I guess . . . maybe drugs? I mean, how do you explain something like this? His mom plays tennis with my mom. What’s the fucking warmup? Take a few swings, limber up that tennis elbow. Hey, sorry again my boy killed your boy.”

  Kade shrugged and grabbed the file I’d given him. “You’re asking the wrong guy. All I can tell you is good luck.” He flipped the folder open to stare at the papers. “Tell me about Cassandra Mayfield and Cyprus Manor.”

  “Right.” I sat up a little straighter, retrieved my phone, and tapped through several screens. Kade’s request this time had been a little odd, and I checked my notes to make sure I had it right. “Twenty-three years old. White. Female. It looks like the investigation started pretty hot. The family filed a missing person rep
ort, and the DuPage Sheriff’s Department took it seriously. Nothing gets the buzzards flapping like a rich white girl vanishing, and the sheriff wanted Cassandra back home before the AP could send it out. The deputies he put on it are solid guys, Castanera and Fletcher. They had a line on a ‘person of interest,’” I drew the quotes with one hand, “who was, of course, a black man who had the bad luck of taking odd jobs in the Mayfields’ neighborhood. The guy was new to the area, he’d been in Leakesville for a possession charge, and he immediately moved up to number one on their list.” I sat back and shrugged. “You can guess how far they got with him.”

  Kade leaned back in the booth, the vinyl crackling under him. “I’m assuming they found nothing to hold the guy. Especially with no hard evidence to pin it on him.”

  I shook my head. “They didn’t even get that far. Dante Coleman slipped and accidentally put his head through a noose. They found him a few days later. Castanera and Fletcher are pretty sure the Mayfields weren’t involved, at least, not directly, but some good old boys decided to take matters into their own hands. Castanera and Fletcher kept digging. The more they dug, the less they found. Dante Coleman hadn’t done jack shit since getting out of Leakesville—just a guy trying to make a living.”

  “Fuck,” Kade said with a sigh. “Anything else I need to know? About the area or her case?”

  I shuffled the flatware that had been wrapped in the napkin. Then my hands stopped, and I opened the folder in front of Kade. I started laying out the photographs I’d printed out for him. Some of them looked like they were from college yearbooks. Some of them, with dangerous-looking shoulder pads, looked like they were 80s glamor shots. Some of them were in black and white, women with their hair marcelled and looking like they’d hung out with Douglas Fairbanks on the weekends.

  “Eliza Powell,” I said, tapping what looked like the earliest photograph. “1927. Lessie Lynne, 1933. Theresa Cannette, 1936. Then it’s quiet for a while—or people are being made to be quiet. Cissy Taranto, 1988. Miranda Blanch, 1991. Janice Faulkner, no relation, 2000. Clair Cannette, 2008. That one is a relation, by the way. She’s a great niece or something of the one from 36. And, of course, Cassandra Mayfield. All of these girls were reported missing and were never found. All of them lived within a twenty-mile radius of Cyprus Manor. And want to hear the freaky part?”