Bayou Corruption (17 page)

T
he morning sun streaked the sky, as if God's fingertip had brushed a stroke of violet across the blue masterpiece. Alyssa stared out the open window of her bedroom. Birds chirped, their song carried on the soft breeze floating over the bayou. Maybe Lagniappe wasn't the cursed place she'd always thought it to be.

She smiled at herself. This morning, she'd awoken with a prayer on her lips. Could being in a relationship with God be so easy? She'd even dug into her dresser drawers to find her old Bible, looking up passages about Jesus being her intercessor, comforter and defender. To feel comfortable just talking to Him…well, her heart soared.

Alyssa turned from the window. Her gaze fell on the photograph on her bedside table. Momee and Papa, just months before their deaths. They looked so happy, so in love, so at peace. Had God been a daily part of their lives? She wished she could ask. Alyssa traced her finger along the picture, over Momee's image. Her heart turned as cold and fragile as the glass.

Who did she think she was fooling? Alyssa would never ease her guilt of surviving by honoring her mother in journalism. Her therapist had explained survivor's guilt and all, but now, here in the bayou with a new sense of confidence, she had to ask herself the hard questions. Had she really always wanted to be a journalist, or had she been trying to gain her mother's approval? For so long she'd thought following in her mother's footsteps would be what she wanted most. But now? She honestly didn't know. She'd scrambled and fought to make a niche for herself in journalism, but she hadn't actually considered if this was truly her heart's desire. Could she have deluded herself for all these years, determined to follow in the wake of her mother's ghost?

For the first time, Alyssa took inventory of her thoughts and emotions. Did she really have passion to be a journalist? The answer numbed her.

While she enjoyed the fast-paced flow of the job, she didn't want to write within the confines of the facts. In truth, she felt drawn to something else. Oh, she still wanted to write. She'd always loved the written word. The idea of putting the stories in her mind onto paper beckoned to her. She just didn't want to be a reporter.

Should she chuck journalism to become a novelist? Someone plagued by rejections and reservations.

She set down the photograph, her mind filled with doubts.

Are you proud of me yet, Momee?

The slamming of the front door drew her from her musings.

“Al, you up?” CoCo hollered.

Alyssa smiled. If she hadn't been, her sister's bellow would have woken her. “Yep.” She moved to the stairs, fully dressed.

“Wow, you're ready for the day. Come on, let's have breakfast. Grandmere's making pancakes.”

The smell of warmed cane syrup hovered in the kitchen. Alyssa smiled as she took her seat, spying the can of syrup sitting in a pan of water on the stove.

“Good morning. Hot off the griddle.” Grandmere flipped two cakes onto a plate, slapped a thick pat of butter on top before coating them in the warm syrup. She set the plate in front of Alyssa. The butter had already melted, oozing down the stack.

Alyssa waited for Grandmere to set CoCo's plate in front of her. “Would you pray, CoCo?”

Her sister's eyes widened, but she smiled and nodded. They bowed their heads, and CoCo offered up grace for the meal, along with asking for the health and protection of their family. When they lifted their heads, Alyssa thought she caught a glimmer of tears in CoCo's eyes. Her sister loved her. The thought warmed Alyssa more than the heated syrup.

“What're your plans for today?” CoCo asked.

“I was thinking of talking with Jackson and seeing if he could use his connection with the New Orleans paper to find out what Momee was working on when she…died.” The word still sat sideways in her mouth. She took a drink of coffee.

“Do you think it's important?”

“Maybe.” Alyssa shrugged. “It's something to look into. Then I'm going to try to get copies of the police reports on Kevin Arnold's murder. Surely there's something filed that's a matter of public record.”

“I'll be happy to help you later this afternoon. After I finish my run this morning, I'm going over to Luc's to help Felicia pick out a dress for the party. But then I should be free.”

“I don't know what time I'll get to meet with Jackson. He's working on the docks at night, so he might sleep in.” And she didn't know if he'd be willing to help her once she came clean. Her heart ached.

After CoCo left, Alyssa booted up her laptop and logged onto the Vermilion parish clerk of court's Web site. She maneuvered until she found the page with access to public documents. Minutes fell off the clock as she scrolled through the dates. Fortunately, the records had all been computerized three years ago, allowing all the old documents to be available. At last, she retrieved the records from the month and year of the murder. She rolled her mouse through page after page.

She didn't find a report on Kevin Arnold's murder, but she did find one with her parents' names.

Stomach knotting, Alyssa clicked on the file.

She scanned the information. Her heart dropped to her knees. The sheriff's office had conducted an investigation into the accident. For two days.

Only two.

After which, they deemed the car crash an accident. Driver's fault.

Alyssa's hands trembled.

She read until the end of the document. Only one line stuck out at her—the name of the investigating officer.

Sheriff Roger Thibodeaux.

 

“I'm glad you called.” Jackson stared across the table at Alyssa. Her eyes were hooded, and the beginnings of black circles formed under her eyes.

The clanking of silverware, people moving, and talk from other diner patrons vanished as he studied her.

A haunted woman.

His heart tightened.

“I made a big connection last night,” he offered.

Her eyes lit up. His heart responded with a backflip. Without stopping to consider his own reactions, he told her what he'd learned from the bills of ladings coinciding with the rice plant and shipment numbers.

Her face turned pale. He couldn't read her expression.

“What's wrong, Alyssa?”

“This is getting more frightening the further along we go.” She proceeded to tell him that Roger Thibodeaux had been the sheriff who'd worked the cases of both her parents' car accident and the assault on Warren Lewis, along with sharing the allegations of Mr. Lewis.

He let the information sink in. “Do you believe Mr. Lewis is telling the truth?”

“Absolutely. At least, he believes he's telling the truth.” She rubbed her scar. “His allegations about Senator Mouton don't ring true to me, though.”

“Let me get this straight. Roger Thibodeaux was the sheriff when three seemingly unrelated crimes were committed, and he worked each of them. He's now the rice plant manager, apparently having landed the job on Senator Mouton's recommendation.”

She nodded.

“And I've proven all the numbers found on money in the bayou matched the shipment numbers to rice plant shipments. All had his initials on the bills.”

Definitely too much to be considered coincidence.

“How do your parents' deaths relate?”

She shifted in her chair. “The car accident that gave me my scar? Well, my parents died in the crash.”

Now he understood her reaction to his probing questions. “I'm so sorry.” How awful. No wonder she detested Lagniappe so much.

“Here's the thing, though. I occasionally have nightmares about the crash, but recently, I've had another memory resurface, and now I'm one hundred percent positive the wreck wasn't an accident. It was murder. Someone killed my parents.”

And could have killed her. His stomach clenched.

She continued, obviously unaware of his gut reaction. “I know it's been a long time—thirteen years ago—but I know I'm right. They were murdered, and the crime written off as an accident. By Roger.”

He shook his head. “It's so much to consider. And you feel like they're connected in some way?”

“I don't know, but I'm beginning to believe all of this is related.”

“Me, too.” He stared into his black coffee, his thoughts tumbling over each other.

“In my research at the library, I found out someone killed Kevin Arnold the same night my parents were murdered.”

She certainly seemed convinced. Her belief was not only reflected in her words, but also in her face. “Something else interesting. Martin Gocheaux is Roger Thibodeaux's nephew. Roger got him hired on in the sheriff's office before he retired to work at the rice plant.” Her eyes danced. “According to Mr. Lewis, another one of Roger's nephews works on the docks.”

“Definitely too chancy to be considered a fluke, in my humble opinion.” He studied her. Something akin to dread marred her beautiful features.

Beautiful? Had he really just thought that?

As he took in the sight of her, recalling her smile and laugh, her gentleness and concern, he realized he
did
find her beautiful. Inside and out.

“Jackson, there's something I need to tell you.”

He ran a finger around the rim of his mug. Whatever she had to say, it didn't look as if she wanted to tell him.

She sucked in a deep breath. “I haven't been exactly forthcoming with you.”

“About?” A sinking feeling washed over him.

“Do you remember the day you got your promotion at the
Times-Picayune?
”

He searched his recollection. “Uh, vaguely.”

“I interviewed for that job.”

His mind raced through his memory files. His heart thudded hollowly.

Big dark eyes. Small girl, with long, dark hair.

Jackson stared at her. Different color and length of hair. But the same girl. No, now a woman.

“You.”

She nodded.

So what? They'd both applied out for the same position. That wasn't anything to get all worked up about. Unless…

“You resent that.” His muscles tensed. “You resent me.”

“No. Yes. Ugh.” She shook her head. “I did. At first. But not now.”

So that's why she'd been so back and forth in the way she acted toward him. She didn't like him at all. And she'd planned on using him from the get-go! Why hadn't he seen her ploy sooner?

“Because you need me for this story, right?” Anger simmered under his skin. “A story that could make your career.”

“No. I mean, I do need you, but that's not what I mean.”

He chose to ignore the lines of frustration digging into her face. She used him to get a story. Paying him back for winning the job she'd applied for. Stringing him along.

She'd made him care for her. Caused him to think he could fall in love with her. Foolish.

“Jackson.”

He glared into her eyes, not bothering to shield the disappointment and resentment. “What?”

“I realized something this morning.”

“Am I supposed to be enthralled by a revelation of yours?”

The hurt in her eyes stung him.

Lord, help me to forgive her as You forgive me.

She leaped from the chair. “Not that it matters, but I realized this morning that I don't even want to be a reporter anymore.” She turned and rushed from the diner.

Running away—wasn't that her modus operandi? The bayou, the newspaper, the sandwich shop and now?

Jackson tossed bills on the table and followed her. He caught her on the sidewalk, and grabbed her arm. “Wait,
chère.
I'm sorry.”

“No, it's me who should be sorry. And I am.” She lifted tear-filled eyes. “I really am sorry, Jacks.”

Her use of his nickname did the trick.

He pulled her into his arms, and lowered his lips to hers. She tasted like coffee and sugar. He deepened the kiss. Her arms wrapped around his neck, her fingers threading into his hair. His heart found a new gear—warp speed.

Reluctantly, he ended the kiss, not trusting the emotional stirring in his chest.

Oh, he could get used to kissing Alyssa LeBlanc.

Very used to it, indeed.

A
lyssa stared into Jackson's eyes. Their kiss left her legs feeling as liquid as CoCo's gravy. She swayed for a moment, grateful his arms still held her. Strong, muscular arms.

She shook her head, clearing her mind. While still new at this whole personal-relationship-with-God thing, she knew the importance of keeping her thoughts pure. Very important. She let out a long breath of air.
God, tell me how to act the way You want me to.

“I, uh, I'm—” His cheeks were an interesting shade of pink.

She pressed her finger against his lips. “Let's not analyze this right now. Okay?”

He nodded, and she dropped her hand. “I really am sorry for not telling you immediately, Jackson.”

His expression remained soft. “Look, let's take a little walk around the square. Talk a bit. The fresh air will do us both good.” He dropped his arms, but grasped one of her hands in his.

Well-built hands.

Stop it!
Concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other.

Alyssa walked along the cracked sidewalk, glee and giddiness worrying against common sense and restraint inside her.

“What's this about you not wanting to be a reporter anymore?”

That threw cold water on her wandering thoughts.

“I did an inventory of my life this morning—where I am, what I want. I realized today I never should've become a reporter. I don't like it. I fooled myself into believing I wanted it.”

“Why?”

“Because my mother was an award-winning photojournalist at the
Times-Picayune.
” She teetered over a hole in the sidewalk, only to have Jackson grab hold of her elbow and steady her.

“And it was expected of you to follow in her footsteps?”

“No. I did that on my own. I guess because I wanted to honor her.”
Or make her proud of me.

“But she was a photographer. Did you ever think of doing that?”

She laughed. “I don't have the eye for it. Trust me, I tried.”

“No wonder you were miffed I got the job. You wanted the position because it was where your mother worked.”

“Silly, isn't it?” Concentration became even more difficult as he rubbed his thumb along the backside of her hand.

“Actually, it makes a lot of sense. And helps me understand you a lot better.” He stopped and faced her. His movements were precise as he drew her into his arms and kissed her again.

She felt as if a feather tickled her stomach. Or a whole mass of butterflies had suddenly burst free inside her.

He pulled back, took her hand again and smiled.

His smile shook her nearly as much as his kisses.

“And in case you haven't noticed, I really like understanding you.”

Alyssa giggled, the glee and giddiness winning the battle. “I like understanding you, too.”

They continued around the square, the morning sun shining directly on them.

“So, if you don't want to be a reporter, what do you want to do?”

“I don't know.” Heat spread across her face.

“Come on, you must have an idea. Where does your passion lie?”

“I think about stories a lot.”

“Stories? You mean articles? That's reporting,
chère.
” He chuckled.

“No, like fiction stories.”

“As in a novelist?”

“Yeah. Stupid, huh?”

“Not at all. Half the reporters I know have the dream of taking time off to write the great American novel.”

“I've got some ideas brewing around in my head.”

“Maybe you should try putting them on your laptop.”

She laughed. “Maybe I'll do just that.”

A comfortable hesitation followed before he spoke again. “How's your grandmother?”

“Ornery as ever. Gotta love her.” A smile tickled her lips. “How's the sheriff?”

“No official change.”

She caught the hope in his voice. “But unofficially?”

“One of the nurses told me that Bubba moved his feet yesterday in response to stimuli.”

“That's wonderful.”

“Well, the doctors say the reaction was just that, a physical reaction. No thought required to perform.”

“You think differently?”

“Yeah. I know God's in control of the situation, and I have to believe He'll bring it to closure for the best.”

The burning question nearly seared her lips. “And if He doesn't?”

Jackson stopped and stared at her. “Huh?”

“If God doesn't heal the sheriff, how will you feel then?”

“I'll be sad, of course, and I wouldn't understand, but I know it'd be part of God's master plan.”

Wow. Unbelievable. “You'd still be of the opinion God was in control?” Memories of the anger she'd felt when her parents died assaulted her.

“Of course. Alyssa, we may never understand why things happen the way they do, may never understand this side of Paradise, but one thing we can always cling to is that God's always in control.”

“I wish I could grasp that. I'm still mad about Momee and Papa dying.” Her heart clenched as more memories flooded.

“Here's the thing about faith. You come to the edge of a drop-off and you know one of two things will happen—either there will be a ledge to step on, or you'll sprout wings to fly.”

She closed her eyes, barely able to concentrate as he stroked beneath her lip. “Jacks?”

“Yeah?” His voice was husky.

“Could you find out what my mother was working on for the paper at the time of her murder?”

 

He dropped his hands, clenching his fists to avoid touching her.

Once again, she'd duped him. Made him think she cared with how she'd returned his kisses. Made him feel as if they were connecting on a spiritual level.

Then hit him with a plea for help.

One that required the use of his job. The job she'd wanted.

Could her manner all be an act? Even saying she didn't want to be a reporter? Man, she was good. Real good. Too good.

Alyssa blinked her eyes open. “What?”

“What's her name?” he ground out.

“Claire LeBlanc. Jackson, what's wrong?” She latched onto his arm.

“Nothing.” He shrugged off her touch. He couldn't think clearly when she touched him. “Look, I have an errand I need to run. I'll find out what I can and let you know.”

“Jacks?”

And he really couldn't think when she called him by his nickname.

“I'll call you.” He forced himself not to sprint the final length to his truck.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. How could he have believed she'd really be interested in him? She'd played him, and he'd gone right along with it. Every step of the way.

Stupid.

He slammed the truck's door and peeled out of the parking lot.
Lord, I need some help, here.
He steered toward the hospital. He really needed to see Bubba, even if his friend couldn't give him any advice.

The nurse on duty smiled as he passed her. Bubba lay still, same as usual. The beeps and hums of the machines soothed Jackson's agitated nerves. He pulled up the chair and took his friend's hand.

“Pard, I sure wish you could talk to me. I'm all messed up. Over a woman.” He shook his head and stared at a cracked tile of the ICU. “I don't know how it happened, but I think I gave her my heart. And she stomped on it.”

Bubba's hand shifted in his. Jackson loosened his grip. “Sorry, didn't mean to squeeze so tight. I'm just so frustrated. I've never felt like this before.”

He took a deep breath, letting go of Bubba's hand. Jackson rested his elbows on the bed, cradling his head in his hands. “I think I'm falling in love with her, and I don't know how to stop it. I want to stop it. I think I do. I mean, she doesn't really care about me, so why would I want to love a woman like that?”

Bubba gripped his arm and squeezed.

“I know, I'm just having a pity party and I need to snap—” He jerked his stare to Bubba's face.

His friend blinked back at him.

“Bubba!” Jackson jumped to his feet, knocking over the chair, and pressed the call button over the bed. “Bubba, you're awake. Can you hear me?”

The sheriff blinked rapidly.

A nurse rushed into the room. “What's the mat—” She looked at Bubba. “Oh, my. I'll get the doctor.” She hurried out.

“How do you feel?” Jackson grabbed his friend's hand again. “Blink if you're in pain.”

Again, Bubba blinked.

“Don't worry about it. The nurse went to the get the doctor.” He squeezed the sheriff's hand a little tighter. “Oh, praise God, Bubba. I've been praying so hard for your healing. God is so good.”

A doctor whooshed into the room, the tails of his white coat flying behind. “Please step back,” he said.

Jackson moved against the wall.

The doctor shined the light in Bubba's eyes. “Mr. Theriot, I'm Dr. Wahl. I'm just going to look you over right quick.”

Once more Bubba blinked.

The doctor flitted over the sheriff, his hands moving. He spoke quickly and used words Jackson didn't understand as the nurse's pen flew over the chart.

“We're going to take some tests. Are you comfortable? Blink once for yes.”

Bubba blinked. A definite response!

Jackson's heart pounded harder than when he'd kissed Alyssa.

Thank You, Father. Thank You for this miracle.

“Once we affirm you're to the next level, we'll remove the tube from your throat. We'll know more once the tests are concluded and we have the results. Do you understand?”

Bubba blinked once.

The doctor smiled, patted Bubba's shoulder and motioned Jackson into the hall. The nurse lifted the phone and ordered tests.

“I'll be right here, pard,” Jackson said before following the doctor.

“This is quite amazing,” the doctor said. “To be honest, I expected his organs to fail within the next seventy-two hours or so.”

Hope rose in Jackson's gut. “But he's doing well, right?”

“He looks better than we could ever have expected. We'll run several tests and know more definitely then.”

“But he's awake. That's the main thing.”

“It's difficult to say, Mr. Devereaux. We'll need to see if he has any brain damage or swelling on the brain. His organs took a major hit in the assault and were put on a machine to make them work. We can't be sure what lasting damage will remain until we get the test results back.”

No, God remained in control of this. Just like Jackson had told Alyssa.

“I understand what you're telling me, Dr. Wahl, but I know he's gonna be just fine.”

The doctor finally smiled. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because God's holding Bubba in the palm of His hands. He is, after all, the Great Physician, and He's still on the throne.”